


Crime, Cricket, and Inktober

by WolfieOnAO3



Category: Raffles (TV 1977), Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Albany Era, Angst, Crime Cricket and Inktober, Domestic, Earl's Court Era, Fluff, Ham Common Era, Humor, Inktober 2020, M/M, Pre-Canon, Short Stories, Some sort of crack too, really this will probably run the gamut, school days, short story collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: For this year's Inktober I will be writing a short Raffles story for every odd numbered prompt. Each chapter is a new short story.INKTOBER OR WORMWOOD SCRUBS!
Relationships: Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles
Comments: 104
Kudos: 25





	1. CONTENTS PAGE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents Page

**Crime, Cricket, and Inktober 2020**

  
**Contents Page**

[Chapter 2: 1 - Fish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/65270986#workskin)  
Bunny isn't the greatest student. Or is he?  
Comedy, domestic, fluff. Ham Common Era, Old Married Couple.  
Word Count: 2,705

[Chapter 3: 3 - Bulky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/65352589#workskin)  
Set between _Gift of the Emperor_ and _No Sinecure_ , Bunny reflects on Raffles' rooms at the Albany.  
Angst, character study. Immediately pre-Earl's Court Era. Established Relationship On Hiatus Due To ~~fake death~~ Circumstances.  
Word Count: 1,601

[Chapter 4: 5 - Blade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/65480113#workskin)  
Raffles and Bunny hang out in the sunshine.  
Pure candyfloss fluff. Albany Era. Established relationship.  
Word Count: 4,017

[Chapter 5: 7 - Fancy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/65584114#workskin)  
Late night and slightly inebriated Raffles and Bunny conversations on literature, poetry, and the nature of love.  
Dialogue heavy, a little fluff, a little angst. Albany Era. Pre-relationship.  
Word Count: 2,614

[Chapter 6: 9 - Throw](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/65690887#workskin)  
Young Bunny over hears a conversation he shouldn't.  
Part II of[ _Before The Ides Of March_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136807)  
Angst, friendship, character study. Schooldays Era.  
Word Count: 5,867  
 **REPOSTED AS[ _Every Subject's Soul_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121876)**

[Chapter 7: 11 - Disgusting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/65777245#workskin)  
Raffles seeks revenge on a very obnoxious club member.  
Comedy. Albany Era. Established relationship.  
Word Count: 3,589

[Chapter 8: 13 - Dune](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/65900818#workskin)  
A week after Angus Baird's murder, Raffles invites Bunny to a Halloween Ball in Devon.  
Angst, character study. Albany Era. Early Relationship.  
Word Count: 4,877  
 **REPOSTED AS _[Dunes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263698)_**

[Chapter 9: - 15 Outpost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/65990119#workskin)  
Raffles and Bunny at war.  
...I can't really give information without spoilers, haha, sorry! Established relationship.  
Word Count: 2,696

[Chapter 10: 17 - Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66097723#workskin)  
Raffles is AWOL, Bunny is determined to speak with him.  
Angst, character study. Albany Era. Established relationship  
Word Count: 4,107

[Chapter 11: 19 - Dizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66190252#workskin)  
Part I of the sort-of-Stardust/Fairytale AU.  
Fairytale AU, canon-compliant crack, character study. Pocket Universe/Ham Common era. First Meeting/Old Married Couple.  
Word Count: 3,906

[Chapter 12: 21 - Sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66275723#workskin)  
Part II of the sort-of-Stardust/Fairtyale AU  
Fairytale AU, canon-compliant crack, character study. Pocket Universe/Ham Common era. First Meeting/Old Married Couple.  
Word Count: 5,383

[Chapter 13: 23 - Rip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66354676#workskin)  
Bunny is excited to meet Raffles' family.  
Part III of _[Before The Ides Of March](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136807) _  
Friendship, character study. Schooldays.  
Word Count: 7,772  
 **REPOSTED AS[ _Lucky Rabbit's Paw_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125845)**

[ Chapter 14: 25 - Buddy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66423533#workskin)  
Buddy has a leaky roof and a confession to make.  
[ _The Adventures of A.J. Raggles series._](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904011)  
Comedy, fluff. Delinquency and Draughts Alternate Universe.  
Word Count: 2,165

[Chapter 15: 27 - Music](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66540037#workskin)  
The events of the Ardagh Emeralds, and the story behind Bunny swearing off of dancing.  
Set shortly before _"13: Dune"_ and the canon story " _Wilful Murder_ "  
Excessively romantic fluff, friendship, touch of angst. Albany Era. Early Relationship.  
Word Count: 7,803  
 **REPOSTED AS _[Your Last Dance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263068)_**

[Chapter 16: 29 - Shoes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66623266#workskin)  
Post-Gift, pre-No Sinecure Bunny writes on Raffles' legacy in popular thought versus the man he really was.  
Character study, angst, friendship, love. Immediately pre-Earl's Court Era. Established Relationship On Hiatus Due To ~~fake death~~ Circumstances.  
Word Count: 1,356

[Chapter 17: 31 - Crawl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66739948#workskin)  
Raffles and Bunny use a ouija board on Halloween.  
Comedy, romance, fluff, spookiness. Ham Common Era. Old Married Couple.  
Word Count: 8,346


	2. 1: Fish

_Give a man a fish and he is hungry in an hour; if you teach him to catch a fish you do him a good turn._ _  
_ _~ Mrs Dymond, by Anne Isabella Thackeray, 1885_

* * *

'Bunny,' Raffles said to me one lazy autumnal afternoon in early October. The day outside was deceptively bright, the streaming sunshine promising more warmth than it delivered and the stillness of the golden-hued leaves betraying no hint of the crisp and bitter chill which cut through the Richmond air and sent cold rivulets snaking around my ankles whenever our landlady opened the sitting room door to bring us coffee and sandwiches. 'Do you have an hour or two you can spare me this afternoon, my dear chap?'

I looked up from my work, a nothing little piece of pulp from which practically any interruption would have been a welcome distraction, and smiled in his direction. 'I do,' I answered him eagerly. 'Or three or four, if you can give me an engaging enough diversion!'

'I hope it might be,' he said cryptically, looking me over with a searching grey eye. 'Follow me, Bunny. I've a gift for you.'

Raffles didn't have to tell me twice. I sprang up from my desk and ran after him down the wooden-floored hallway and into his bedroom, whence upon my arrival he closed the door behind me and turned the key in the lock. 

'Sit down,' he ordered, gesturing to the bed. I obeyed without question and watched with interest as he rooted around in the back of a drawer, muttering mild curses beneath his breath when the old wood stuck fast.

'Do you need any help?'

'No, Bunny, I do not need _help_ with a _drawer_ \-- ah! There we go! And here _you_ go, rabbit,' he added, turning back to me and handing over a soft black leather pouch. It made a faintly metallic sound as I took it from him. '...It won't open itself. Go on!'

Carefully I untied the leather thong and unfolded the package. Truth be told, I was only mildly surprised to find that what lay within the unassuming little black pouch was a well-provisioned lock picking set. I recognised the tools, of course, from having seen Raffles himself use similar on countless occasions; I held them for him as he worked. But these were not Raffles' lockpicks. I would recognise his out of a hundred; the particular scratches upon the metal which belied his own particular method and own particular technique mastered by his own particular hand were as well known to me as the lines which framed his eyes and the freckles which peppered his arms. No, these weren't Raffles' lockpicks. These were new. 

These were _mine._

'Lockpicks, Raffles?' 

'Bravo, Bunny!' he answered me sarcastically.

'Shut up -- What I mean is… _l_ _ockpicks_? Why have you given me lockpicks? Not that I'm not… _grateful…_ but… _lo_ _ckpicks_ , A. J.? As a token of affection I'm not entirely sure what to read into this.’

'Chocolates and roses are more conventional, I know, but when have we ever gone in for conventionality, rabbit? Terribly dull. Anyway, these aren't a token of affection, but of utility. I'm going to teach you how to use 'em.'

'A. J…'

'No, Bunny, don't be stubborn about it. I've been on at you for Lord knows how long about how you really ought to learn; it's high time we turned talk into action!'

‘It’s really not.’

‘Come on, Bunny, don’t be such a spoil sport, old chap.’

‘You’re just bored.’

‘Then indulge me!’

‘Gladly! But not at _this_. I don’t want to learn how to pick locks, A. J., I’ve told you as many times as you’ve suggested it! I have no interest in it whatsoever.’

‘It’s a very useful skill, Bunny.’

‘Yes; and one that I don’t need to learn. You’re the cracksman, Raffles, not me. I’m just the-- the chap who holds the lantern and keeps look out. And even if you did teach me, I’ll never be as good as you, not if I had a hundred years to practice, so what’s the point? If we need to pick locks, _you_ will be the one to do it, whether I am capable or not!’

‘What if I’m not with you?’

‘Raffles…’

‘No, no,’ he said, waving an irritated hand. ‘Not like that. But you might get, I don’t know, locked out of the house in the middle of the night. What then, eh?

‘I’d knock on the door.’

‘And wake our dear old landlady? Shame on you, Bunny Manders!’

‘Well, wake _you_ up then. Throw rocks at your window, or -- actually, why would I ever be out at midnight without you? I’m never out at midnight unless you drag me out.’

‘I hardly drag. _You_ drag, Bunny. Inveterate little scoundrel that you are.’

‘What I mean is that I never go out that late alone, and never unless we are--’ I lowered my voice even though it was quite unnecessary, ‘-- on a _job_. And anyway, I never lose my keys. I’m very careful with my keys.’

‘What if someone stole them?’

‘Good luck to anyone who tries it,’ I scoffed. I kept an almost paranoid watch over those keys. Anyone who managed to steal _my_ keys was, frankly, deserving of them. In fact I could only think of one man who would be able to, and there was no reason _he_ would steal my keys; he had a set of his own.

‘Ah, but what if _I_ stole them, Bunny?’

‘A. J., why would you steal my keys?’

‘To encourage you to use your new skills! Now, come on, push up and let me sit next to you, and take look at this _beautiful_ little thing I procured… Isn’t she _gorgeous_ , Bunny? Look at her and tell me honestly that you don’t want to have a go on _that_?’

In his hands, pinched delicately between a thumb and forefinger, Raffles had a small glass-bodied lock. As he held it up it caught a sunbeam pouring through a gap in the curtains, the light refracting as it hit the glass and sending faint rainbow-coloured shimmers across the bookcase on the far wall. And through the delicate glass could be seen the internal lock mechanism itself, as intricate as clockwork and, yes, really rather beautiful in its own way.

‘Why do you have a glass lock?’ I asked, taking the little thing very gently from Raffles and peering at it, twisting it this way and that in my hands. 'It's not very useful.'

‘Look,’ he said leaning towards me and pointing at the mechanism within, ‘you see those pins? These are just the same sort you’ll find in normal locks, Bunny, only in this one, you can see them. They are all different heights, see? But when you push in the correct key--’ he did so, ‘--see what happens? All of the pins line up, and that releases the lock! So if you don’t have the key, all you need to do is--’

‘--All you need to do is push the pins into alignment with the pick!’

‘Exactly that, Bunny!’ Raffles exclaimed happily; and his enthusiasm was contagious. I still had no desire to learn how to pick locks, but suddenly I felt far less averse to him teaching me. His smile was devilishly infectious. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’

Taking back the little glass lock from me, Raffles removed two picks from the set he had just given me and set to work. I had seen him crack locks hundreds of times before, but never like this, never with him being so patient with _me_ , so attentive to _me_ ; never with him watching me as closely as I was watching him. Something in that gave me a small thrill and set my rabbit heart racing not unpleasantly. Anyone would think me a teenager in the blush of first love rather than an ex-prisoner in his thirties, giddy over the fellow he’d had the privilege of calling his own for nigh on eight years. But I should bet against anyone not feeling dizzy beneath the glittering eye, the knowing smile, and the gentle hand of A. J. Raffles. Aged though he was in appearance, his spirit was as young and as vibrant as ever, and he was still every bit as handsome as he had always been; his curls like silver as they caught the sunlight, his sharp profile as--

‘Bunny, are you listening? This is important.’

‘What? Yes! I’m listening. I’m listening!’

And I did listen -- or at least tried to -- for the better part of an hour. And not only listen, but closely watch practical demonstrations, and become increasingly frustrated when I was unable to replicate the movements and outcomes which A. J. made look so completely effortless. 

‘I can’t do it,’ I snapped, finally. ‘Take it off of me Raffles, before I throw the damned thing at the wall. I can’t do it!’

‘Bunny, you have no patience.’

‘I have been trying for over an hour!’

‘Twenty minutes, rabbit…’

‘And that’s still fifteen minutes too long!’

‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, Bunny, and no one I know has ever learned to pick locks in five minutes! Patience, rabbit -- You’ll get there.’

‘I don’t _want_ to get there. Why are you so insistent I learn? I’m not enjoying myself, A. J. Not one bloody bit.’

‘You need to learn; it is an integral part of our trade, I’ve told you time and again. Give a man a fish, and he is hungry in an hour; teach a man to fish and you do him a good turn; but teach a _rabbit_ to pick locks, and no safe in the country shall be, well, safe!’

‘I don’t care,’ I pouted. ‘I don’t want to learn how to fish, and I _don’t_ want to learn how to pick locks. I’m not doing it anymore, Raffles! I’ve humoured you enough. Go for a damned walk if you’re that bored. Now are you going to unlock the door, or are you going to try to make me pick that to escape?’

At my petulant protests, Raffles slung his arm around my shoulders and kissed me on top of my head with a laugh. ‘Of course not, Bunny. But I have always favoured the carrot over the stick. What you need is some proper motivation, my lad. Wait here. I have something else for you.’

When Raffles returned, it was with a beautifully packaged box in his hands, the label of which I recognised immediately.

‘That’s _Charbonnel et Walker_!’ 

‘It is. And this is their most _expensive_ box of chocolates. And this--’ Raffles said tilting the box and giving it a shake, producing a metallic jingle, ‘--is a lock, holding the lid and the base of this very expensive box of chocolates very firmly closed. And the _key_ to this lock is now somewhere at the bottom of the Thames river. This is for you, Bunny; if you want the chocolates, you will have to practice your lock picking! But by all means, pack it in if you haven’t the patience for it.’

The mischievous and self-satisfied smirk on his lips made me growl beneath my breath. ‘You blackguard!’ I cursed him. ‘You villain! You-- you-- you utter _bastard!_ ’

Raffles only laughed. ‘It’s for your own good, Bunny. You might curse me now, but you’ll be the winner twice over once you crack this little beauty; your prize not only that criminally expensive box of luxury confectionary, but a _skill,_ my good rabbit, which will stand you in good stead for the rest of your long and profitable life.’

He darted out of the door with a childish jeer as I hurled pillows at him from the bed.

But I would be the one laughing later that evening.

Raffles had come back in from an early evening walk around the Common; I had declined to go with him as I didn’t fancy going out in the chill air that night, and because I was still fumingly irritated with him. And so he had left me to it, alone in our cosy little sitting room with my new gifts on my lap and a dark scowl over my face.

When he returned, however, that scowl had been replaced by a placid smile. 

‘Hello, A. J.,’ I said pleasantly as he shut the door, a gust of chill wind whipping through the room and making me shiver. ‘Nice walk?’

‘Brisk!’ he replied as he pulled off his coat and hat and hung them both upon the rack. ‘You were right; I should have taken a scarf. But it looked so sunny earlier!’

‘I told you it was cold. Come up close to the fire and warm up. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’

‘Thank you, rabbit,’ he said, planting a kiss onto my forehead before flopping down into the chair in front of the fire and tucking himself beneath a blanket.

‘Oh, and A. J.?’

‘Hm?’

‘Help yourself to chocolates. They are _very_ good.’

His eyes glittered then with a warmth which rivalled that of our blazing fire, and he sat back up straight in his seat. ‘Bunny! You haven’t gotten into it already?’

‘I have,’ I said, getting up to retrieve a mug from the sideboard.

‘You have not! Bunny, that lock should have taken you _days_ to crack! You aren’t telling me you’ve gone and cracked it in the time it took me to walk up and down the Common?’

‘Unless I imagined the four strawberry creams I have just eaten, then yes, I am telling you I “cracked” it.’

‘By _Jove_ , Bunny!’ Two icy hands wrapped around my waist from behind and a pair of cold lips pressed against my ear. ‘What did I tell you? If you simply _apply_ yourself--’

‘You are _freezing,_ A. J.! Go and sit back by the fire! I’m going to go put a fresh pot of coffee on, this one has gone cold. _Sit down Raffles!_ ’

With a beatifically proud, yet more than a little perplexed smile on his face, my wilful and usually masterful Raffles obeyed my orders without question, and it was with a sly grin on my face that I left him to his curiosity; in less than the time it took for the kettle to boil, he had sated it.

‘Bunny!’ he bellowed down the hallway.

‘Yes?’ I called back, stifling a laugh as I heard his footsteps pacing, far from silent, swiftly from the sitting room to the kitchen.

‘Bunny Manders, what in the names of all my gods do you call _this_?’

And as he spoke Raffles brandished the mutilated box of _Charbonnel et Walker_.

‘A box of chocolates,’ I answered, all innocence.

‘What in the devil’s name have you done to it!’

‘Opened it.’

‘With what? An axe!?’

‘No,’ I replied, the perfect model of placid patience. ‘A pair of gardening shears.’

‘A pair of--’! Cutting himself short mid sentence, Raffles looked from me to the box and back to me again. Then he burst out laughing.

‘Oh, you _rabbit_ ,’ he spluttered through his laughter, one hand clasping my shoulder. ‘You incorrigible, scurrilous, devious, _clever_ little _rabbit!_ ’

‘You always taught me,’ I said quietly, weaving one arm around his waist and setting the battered box down on the table with the other, ‘to never break in to an unlocked house when you could simply walk through the door, instead. And then you give me a padlocked box made out of _cardboard_? _Really_ , Raffles?’

‘You have made your point quite eloquently, Bunny,’ he replied, his own arms wrapping me up and pulling me close, ‘and I concede victory to the better man. I solemnly promise, Bunny, that I will stop trying to teach you things you don’t want to learn. I can catch enough fish for the both of us, after all.’

‘Mm. And if you can’t,’ I said, brushing aside a soft, white curl from his forehead and looking deeply into his fathomless grey eyes, sparkling like the stars, ‘then I can always take a stab at them with the landlady’s pruning shears!’


	3. 3: Bulky

_A carriage overturns. One would have imagined that such a solid, bulky object would remain forever on its wheels. It all seems like a dream -- astonishing and senseless._

_~ The Pillow Book of Sei Shonogan, 1002. First translated to English by Purcell and Aston, 1889_

* * *

_April 1897_

Raffles’ rooms at the Albany were, as I have described elsewhere, more befitting of a minor poet than the gentleman and cricketer he was. I can see them even now, in the eye of my mind, as clearly as though I were back there. Many happy hours were spent in those rooms -- and many unhappy ones, though fewer of those, thankfully. 

They were gutted after Raffles was tried and found guilty _in absentia._ Searched from top to bottom, wall to wall, even beneath the floorboards by sacrilegious officers of the law who hoped to find further evidence against him and against me. The manager of the building must have been furious; always a fussy, persnickity little man, I don’t doubt he was more angered by the disruption to his building by the police than by A.J.’s criminality bringing it into disrepute. People would much sooner move into the former rooms of an infamous criminal than into rooms with stripped wallpaper and bared floorboards -- especially at the rent which the Albany charges.

I thought about those rooms a great deal whilst I was in prison. On my weaker days I would lie back on my cot, flea-ridden and hard, and close my eyes, imagining I was instead sprawled back on A.J.’s comfortable, worn settee. I would imagine until my head ached with the effort of it; until I could feel the warmth of the crackling fire, hear the bustling of the street below, smell the Sullivan's smoke and coffee which promised his presence; promised his hand on my shoulder and his voice in my ear; promised that Raffles would be there beside me if only I kept my eyes shut tight.

The Albany is still there, of course. Raffles’ rooms are still there; I don’t doubt that his sopha, his bookcases, his desk, his bed, all of the large, heavy, bulky furniture which were already present when he had moved in was eventually set back in order once the police had gotten their hands into every crack and nook they wanted. It is only Raffles who is removed; Raffles and every trace of him.

I couldn’t envision it. I tried. Every time I was jolted back from my precious illusions to cold, cruel reality in that hellish gaol I would force myself to imagine instead someone new in those rooms, try to convince myself that drinking the wolfsbane and ruby grape of pleasant memory would be far more damaging in the long term than accepting harsh reality as it was. I tried to imagine his bookshelves filled no longer with Rossetti and Keats and Browning and Shakespeare and Verne, but filled instead with books of science, mathematics, engineering, dry legal tomes; or worse bereft of all but the most run-of-the-mill, trite, bulk-purchased books-for-show, libraries which the wilfully yet shamefacedly illiterate bought in wholesale to mislead his friends into believing he cared for higher things than horses and baccarat. I tried to imagine his indian rugs replaced with dull mats; a blank wall where his _Blessed Damozel_ once hung...

But I couldn't do it. I couldn't truly see those things, still less believe them; though my rational mind knew that they must be true. Raffles' rooms stripped bare of him were too much like a crashed carriage, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air. The disconcert of knowing that such a sturdy, bulky, solid and real thing had been overturned by something so meaningless as a pothole or a perfectly placed rock in the road is at once so mundane and yet still so astonishing as to leave you reeling. Expected and yet impossible to truly prepare for. And still the traffic moves on.

I don’t know what happened to the bulk of Raffles' belongings; not specifically. I know that those which were suspected stolen were taken into possession by the police; those things which were suspected to have been bought by ill-gotten gains similarly taken into police custody, only to be auctioned off to line the pockets of the commissioner rather than held as evidence. A.J.’s will -- for he has been declared dead, of course -- was mostly disregarded. He left a great deal to his sister and her children, and they were given the little that the police didn’t steal. And he left a great deal to me. Far more than he ought to have done, and I fear it was looked upon badly by the judge and jury. I only learned of it myself during the trial, in fact, whilst standing in the dock itself. It took all the little strength I had to remain stoic in the face of it. 

When I was released, Raffles’ sister wrote to me, offering for me to come to Cambridgeshire to collect a few of his books, his sketchpads, other miscellaneous personal items which she, in her great-hearted kindness, felt I had as much right to as they did. When I declined she had them posted to me. 

Raffles’ sister’s handwriting is disconcertingly similar to his own. My heart thudded in my chest when I received the parcel, when I saw my nickname written as the addressee -- his sister, too, knew me as Bunny, for that was how he introduced me. For a moment I believed it was from him; for a moment the eighteen months I had spent steeling myself to his loss, to his _death_ \-- for even if he were not truly dead, he was surely dead to _me_ \-- all of that hard won strength sapped from me, replaced in a moment by some mad hope, some fevered fantasy where Raffles was alive; where Raffles had returned to me; where all of this had been a nightmare and I would wake up on the settee in the Albany, the fire blazing, the old clock upon the mantel ticking away, and Raffles smiling at me from over the top of his book. _Bad dream, rabbit?_

It’s strange. I was never in denial over the possibility of losing him, one way or another. Raffles was not a solid, sturdy creature; in my mind he never represented security or constancy or safety -- not exactly. Not in the traditional sense, at least, though he held a sort of constancy and safety all of his own, and in many ways a better kind than I had ever before known. But what I mean to say is that I knew full well the knife-edge upon which we walked. I knew the risks inherent in our chosen path; I knew what manner of man I had fallen in love with. And I knew too that I would never be able to hold onto him, no more than a person can hold onto starlight. He was ephemeral and intangible and beautiful, and his substance was so much more than mere materiality; and yet now the material is all that I am left with. Material which was once soaked with the life of him, now, what? Pulp and paper and cardboard and glass and ink? What are any of these things without _him_? 

And yet I haven’t sent back his books of poetry. His novels. His sketchbooks. The watercolour of the girl with the titian hair he painted one summer in the park as we sat in the sun. They sit in a pile at the end of my desk, neither displayed nor hidden, constant in the background of my mind. I’ve barely been out of prison a month, and the mundanity of this world outside is already almost proving too much to bear. That looks insane now that I put pen to paper, but Raffles would know what I meant. 

Life carries on. A.J. is gone, the life I knew with him is gone, the life I knew before him is gone, everything I had and was and hoped and feared is all gone, fleeting as writing in the sand at high tide. It is all gone and yet still life continues. How is that possible? I collect my pay for articles written. I buy milk. I walk in the park. I watch carriages as they ferry people to and fro across the city. I smiled, yesterday, at a toddling child throwing bread to the ducks, and his little mother shot me a shy, proud smile when she caught my eye, knowing nothing of who I was or all that I had lost. 

The world continues, with Raffles or without him. I continue with Raffles or without him. 

But in my dreams those rooms at the Albany will always be his. The fire burning low, awaiting his return; his book face down on the arm of his chair; a half-finished tumbler of whiskey and soda still standing upon the sideboard. I keep the place tidy in his absence in my mind. I dust, and I open the windows to let in the air; I maintain his cricket kit ready for the season; I keep the imprint of his door key in my pocket, in my hand, in my memory, in my heart.

For I too, like those rooms, like the crowds at Lords on a hot summer's day, like the scent of Sullivan smoke and coffee lingering in the air, will forever belong to him -- whether he is here or not.


	4. 5: Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⚠️ANGST-FREE ZONE⚠️ 
> 
> Rambling sentimental silly nonsense; pure fluff without plot. But hey, at least it isn't sad.
> 
> This one's for you, Chippa! ....er... sorry.

Though I was a keen, one might go so far to as say _obsessive_ spectator of A.J.’s cricket matches when he played in London, up at Lords, or Prince’s, or Blackheath, or Chiswick, it was rare for me to follow him to the counties during the season. There was little reason for me to do so -- little reason, at least, from an outside perspective. It would have doubtless raised a few eyebrows if Raffles had toted his useless little friend around the country each summer, from Manchester, to Gloucester, to Sussex, to no evident purpose; and the justification of " _he just misses me something wicked when I leave him home alone_ " tended to become less convincing once it was realised that I was in fact Raffles' human pal and not his pet dog. And so the summer months in those halcyon Albany days were always chequerboard for me, marked in my diary as either Raffles Weeks, or weeks where I had to find my own fun.

Nevertheless, aside from missing his company, I had little desire to constantly follow Raffles around on his tours. London suited me perfectly well, with all its creature comforts for those who could afford them and were at liberty to put them to good use; the prospect of hours and hours aboard hot, stuffy trains followed by a week in the country mansion of folk I barely knew -- if at all! --or in some hotel or boarding house little appealed to me. And anyway, at such country house affairs the time I got with A.J. was usually limited, always compromised, and often more frustrating than simply putting up with his absence and greeting him with according warmth when he returned.

Occasionally, however, Raffles saw fit to finagle a way into inviting me to join him on certain tours; usually for the sake of crime. He extended one such invite one hot, sultry August after a busier season than usual had kept us apart longer and with more frequency than I had become accustomed, and after a particularly quiet period on the burglarious front -- at least where I was concerned. A.J. and I had been rather looking forward to the week together. As a rule, Raffles did not play first-class cricket after July; he had only just returned from two weeks in Middlesex and I _had_ missed him something wicked. But duty called, and Raffles was too much of a sportsman to turn a deaf ear. A first-class Somerset team had found themselves a man down -- one of their eleven had broken his wrist after being attacked by an unusually belligerent goat -- and they had duly contacted Raffles quite at the last minute asking, nay _begging_ him to step in. When his sporting honour bound him to acquiesce to the Somerset team’s plea, he decided that he and I ought to make the week of it and go down together. And a deliciously pleasant week it was, too.

There was one afternoon in particular that I look back on with fond affection, not because anything of note occurred but rather precisely because it didn't. It was late in the week, after the full match had been concluded and won by Somerset, with no small thanks owed to Raffles and his brilliant bowling. This particular afternoon A.J., in a fit of high spirits and rebelling against my hitherto persuasive indolence, decided that the countryside in those parts was deserving of more than only our distant attention and insisted that we take a hike outside of the town and up into the rolling hills and dappled woodlands painted in all the colours of late summer. My disinclination toward exercise for its own sake soon faltered in the face of A.J.'s exuberant energy, and before midday fell we were up and out, strolling along isolated footpaths and through verdant pastures as heavy with floral and faunal life as it was bereft of human, other than ours. Raffles had snatched up a cricket ball as we were walking out the door, and as we rambled made a game of tossing it in all directions and sending me off to catch it with the idea of improving my fielding. I had a few goes at throwing it for him, too, complaining that he was the cricketer, not I; but Raffles soon demonstrated that _he_ was in no need of practice, as he caught my tosses every time. Even when I tried to catch him off guard by pitching mid-sentence the sporting chap didn’t even bat an eyelash, but was running across the meadow and back to me again, ball in hand, to finish his thought without missing a beat.

Eventually we reached the top of a rather steep hill with a magnificent view across the countryside, whereupon Raffles suggested we sit down for a bit and take a rest -- though of course he was as cool and unruffled as ever, whilst I was red-faced and panting before we had got even halfway up. We settled in the shade of an ancient and impressive oak tree, spreading our jackets on the ground and leaning back against the gnarled old bark. Up on the hill there was a refreshing breeze, and the meadow before us was littered with wildflowers. Even for a pair of dedicated metropolitans such as ourselves, the place was a breath of fresh air, and peaceful as asphodel. Better in fact, for there wasn’t another soul in sight; we hadn’t so much as set eyes upon another person from the moment we’d left the village. We were quite alone with the birds, and the bees, and the breeze, and the butterflies which fluttered by beneath the hot summer sun.

I was contentedly contemplating this happy state when suddenly, just behind my right shoulder, I heard a noise which sounded not unlike how I’d imagine a dying were-wolf or staked vampyre to sound; or, more prosaically, almost exactly like the foxes which used to screech outside my window keeping me awake half the night as a boy. Needless to say I nearly leapt out of my skin.

‘What in the name of--! _Raffles_? For God’s sake! What are you playing at?’

Though I could not yet prove that A.J. had been the source of that unholy wailing, the fact that he was now near rolling over from laughing suggested that he’d had a hand in it.

‘Oh, your face, Bunny!’ he spluttered. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t think it would be so loud. It’s been years since I’ve tried to grass-whistle, I didn’t think I’d remember how!’

‘Grass whistle?’

‘Don’t say you never learned as a boy!’ Raffles exclaimed, expression piteous. ‘Oh, my dear chap, it’s practically a rite of passage! Come over here closer to me and I’ll show you what to do.’

‘You made that noise with just a piece of grass?’

‘Yes, and so shall you ! Pluck yourself a bit-- no, not a little straggly bit like that; you want a nice fat blade like this one. There you go, that's more like it! Now, pinch it between your two thumbs -- see? Like this. That's it, Bunny; keep it as taut as you can without breaking it, and then just--’ He pressed his lips to the grass and blew, recreating that demon-call and breaking out with an irresistibly joyful grin afterwards. ‘You try.’

And try I did, several times, breaking several blades of grass in the process and not coming anywhere close to replicating the whistle which Raffles had so effortlessly produced.

‘I can’t do it,' I huffed, throwing down my blade of grass and feeling only further annoyed when it fluttered gracefully to the earth rather than being properly hurled in irritation as any sporting foliage would.

‘It’s easy!’

‘It’s not easy! If it were easy, I’d have done it!’

‘Try again.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, don’t sulk, Bunny,’ Raffles said, pinching my arm. ‘All right, let’s just get you to do one good whistle and then we’ll drop it. Here, I’ll hold the grass and you blow into _my_ hands, how about that?’

‘A.J…’ I said, my traitorous lips threatening to smile against my will at his boyish enthusiasm. ‘I’m not using _you_ as a _whistle_.’

‘Why not? Come on, Bunny! You know how I hate to be beat!'

With a sigh I inevitably gave in to him. Shooting him an exasperated frown which only made him smile all the more mischievously, I pressed my lips up against the knuckles of his thumbs. With the taste of chlorophyll from the slightly crushed grass intermingling with the cricket-ball-leather-and-salt scent of his skin, I took a breath and blew through his hands, and--! to my surprise finally succeeded in producing that irritating whistle which, I admit, didn’t seem half so irritating when I was the one creating it.

‘I did it!’ I cried happily, turning to A.J. in surprise.

‘Well done that rabbit!’ he laughed, clapping me on the shoulder and gracing me with such a proud and affectionate smile that I would have sat for a hundred hours pointlessly blowing on blades of grass if one look like that from him was my promised reward at the end. ‘I told you you would! Perseverance and creative problem-solving are the bywords of the day, Bunny! A round of applause for my grass-blowing rabbit!'

‘Oh, yes, _such_ an achievement,' I said, shaking my head and laughing. 'Not exactly something to write home about, is it?'

‘I shouldn’t need to write home about it,’ Raffles shrugged, ‘you’re here.’

‘What do you mean?'’

But rather than answering, Raffles settled back once more against the old tree and gazed out across the landscape before us with an artist’s eye. ‘I should have brought my sketchbook,’ he said, more to himself than to me. ‘I always think I won’t want it.’

‘It is beautiful countryside,’ I agreed, sitting back myself and joining him in his pondering. ‘We should do this more often.’

‘Mm.’

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, and twisted a piece of torn grass between my fingertips. ‘Although…’

‘Hm?’

‘Nothing.’

'All right.’

‘It’s just-- Well, the thing is, Raffles, we’ve been here six days already, and the cricket has been done for two, and you haven’t even hinted at what your plans are!'

‘My plans, Bunny?’ Raffles said, finally tearing his gaze from the horizon and skimming it over me with a slight frown. ‘Plans for what?’

‘Crime! Burglary -- I don’t know. Whatever it was that you brought me down here for!’

‘ _Ah_ ,’ he said. ‘Those plans.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I added hurriedly. ‘I’m used to you springing things on me last minute, but if you could let me know--’

‘If it makes you feel better, Bunny, my plans are already well underway.’

‘They are?’

‘Right now, in fact.’

‘What?’

Raffles held me with his piercing stare for a handful of moments as I sat, mesmerised, before he broke out in laughter once more. ‘Oh, you rabbit,’ he chuckled with a shake of his head. ‘These are my plans! This!’

‘What?’

‘Simply to enjoy your company, my dear little thing. No burglaries required.’

‘Oh!’ 

‘Yes, _oh_ ,’ he sighed, still smiling at me, still shaking his curly head. 'Why? Is this week lacking enough excitement and drama for you, Bunny, my boy? Is my incorrigible rabbit already pining after diamonds and pearls and the thrill of the midnight chase? I hate to disappoint you; we shall have to rectify this situation post haste, Bunny, before you tire of me completely.'

'That's not what I meant!' I cried. 'If I could spend the rest of my life as we've spent these past few days you wouldn't hear a peep of protest from me!'

'Until we ran out of money.'

'Well, yes, there is that,' I admitted beneath his knowing eye, and he shook his head at me with a sardonic grin.

Raffles and I had soon both fallen back into companionable and contemplative quiet. I was almost on the verge of dropping off into a half doze when Raffles suddenly sat bolt upright, jolting me and the afternoon alike out of our peaceful daze. He now had one hand outstretched towards the other, in which he was brandishing a piece of grass, his eyes wide staring at it in horror, his mouth hanging open around a quiet gasp.

‘A.J.? Are you all right? What is it?’

‘Is this…?’

‘What!'

‘Is this a _dagger_ I see before me? The handle toward my hand?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake….’

‘Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, yet I see thee still!’ As he spoke, Raffles snatched at the plucked turf between his fingers, theatrically missing as though his hand had passed through it like fog. Or at least I assumed that was the impression he intended to make.

‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s a blade of grass, Bunny,’ he said, turning to me in his own voice again. 

‘Yes, I can see that. I ask again, A.J.: _What are you doing?_ ’

‘A _blade_ , Bunny. Like a dagger. Use your imagination, old chap!’ He turned back to his “dagger” with an anguished expression: 'Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind--’

‘You’re mad!'

‘No, _Macbeth_ , Bunny, do keep up. I thought you wanted more drama in your week! Now where was I? Ah, yes: Art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation--’ Raffles halted with furrowed brow and an exaggerated pout. '… Line?'

I sighed, knowing full well he knew exactly what the line was. Knowing full well he was doing little more than dragging me, complicit, into his ridiculousness. And knowing full well that I would always let him drag me wherever he wished.

‘...A false creation proceeding from the heat-oppressed--’

‘--proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain -- Thank you, Bunny.'

‘You’re welcome.’

‘--I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which I now--’

‘Ding!’ I chimed in. ‘Ding, ding, ding, ding...’

‘What’s that?’

‘The bell.’

‘The bell doesn’t come in yet.’

‘Does it not? Ding, ding, ding--’

‘Wait! I haven’t finished my soliloquy! The bell comes after! In form as palpable as--’

‘Ding, ding, ding-- _’_

‘Bunny!’

‘Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding -- I can keep this up all afternoon -- _ding! Ding! Ding!--_ ’

‘Lady Macbeth, stop ringing that blasted bell! I haven't finished being dramatic!'

‘My Lord, the King’s guards are sleeping; I believe they got drunk of their own accord and, alas, cannot hold their liquor. It’s not _my_ fault they are reprobates who fall asleep before their cue. Anyway, sticking to the script is hardly in your line, A.J… _Ding, ding, ding, ding!_ Hurry up, Macbeth!'’

‘Fine, fine! Ah, mine eyes are made fools -- bloody business -- Tarquin’s ravishing -- Here we are;’ Raffles cleared his throat, ‘I go, and it is done! The bell invites me! Hear it not, Mackenzie--’

‘Raffles!’

‘What?’ he laughed. ‘Stop interrupting, this is my grand finale. The bell invites me! Hear it not, Mackenzie; for it is a knell which summons thee to heaven... or hell!’

Upon the end of his performance, Raffles flourished an ostentatious half-bow, lifting his eyes at the lowest point of his dip and looking up at me from beneath his eyelashes, from beneath his curls. His expression was filled with innocent mischief and teasing delight and there was but the smallest glimmer in his brilliant grey eyes which searched my own for a share in his amusement, for a reaction to his action, and, so I thought, for proof of my approval.

‘Oh, _bravo_ , Raffles, bravo!’ I laughed, giving him the resounding ovation I knew he always secretly desired. ‘Quite possibly the best Macbeth I have ever seen!’

‘ _Possibly_ , Bunny?’

‘What am I saying -- definitely. Unequivocally. Without even a sliver of a shadow of a doubt the best Macbeth to ever tread the boards. Or, that is, the meadow.’’

‘Thank you, thank you -- No, no autographs, please.’

‘None at all?’

‘Oh, well, maybe for you. You have been such a good audience, after all, and a very convincing bell. Who should I make it out to?’

‘...Queen Victoria?'

‘As you wish, your majesty -- and might I say, that particular brown suit suits you magnificently, your Highness; really brings out the green in your eyes. How’s the Empire, by the way?’

‘Oh, ticking along, you know how it is. Lots of paperwork.’

‘Yes, yes, not unlike the theatre, I imagine.’

‘There’s paperwork in the theatre?’

‘Scripts are paper.’

'I hadn't thought of that.'

'Well, you aren't a _thespian_ like me, your majesty.'

'I rather hope not,' I answered sceptically, making him laugh again.

'So, has that sated you, Bunny? Have I provided you with enough dramatic entertainment to see you through the rest of the week without you getting bored of me, or must we go and commit some felony to keep you occupied, hm?''

‘A.J.?’

‘Yes?’

‘Shut up.'

I reached out and placed my hand on his cheek, and to my intense gratification his playful expression immediately deepened into something much softer, his bright eyes darkening, his dazzling smile fading with a sharp sigh. I pulled him towards me by his lapels and kissed him.

‘What was that for?' he asked once I finally put him down again.

'Because I love you.'

‘I thought you said I was mad?’ Raffles murmured, the corners of his mouth quirking into yet another teasing grin.

‘You are,’ I answered. ‘I love you anyway.’

‘Do you, really? Seems foolish.'’

‘Then I'm a fool.'

Raffles exhaled sharply at my words and stared at me a moment before throwing his arm around my shoulder and pulling me up against him, settling back to lay once more propped up against the grizzled old oak and nestling my head beneath his chin. My shirts sleeves were rolled up, and Raffles tickled my forearm with a blade of grass as he rolled it between his fingers. 

‘Why the devil do you put up with me, Bunny?’ he said at length.

‘Because,’ I replied, reaching for his other hand and weaving our fingers together, ‘you are A. J. Raffles, and I am Harry Manders. I was born to put up with you. There is no-one else I would rather put up with in all the world.' 

‘And you say I am the mad one.’

‘Maybe we’re both a little mad,’ I said, tucking myself in closer to him, nuzzling my head against his chest until I was in just the right place to feel his heart beating beneath his shirt. ‘But I should rather be mad with you than sane with the rest of the world.'

For a while he did not reply, but simply remained holding me close to him, his one hand still in mine, the other drifting up into my hair, stroking and twisting out the little knots which the breeze had tangled into it. 

‘I love thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs,’ Raffles began reciting softly, ‘and my childhood’s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life, and if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.'

I listened to him, quietly, lulled by the sound of his voice as it resonated through his chest, vibrating against my cheek as I lay with my head upon him. Then I jabbed him in the ribs.

'Ouch! What's that for?'

'Why do you always have to make things morbid?'

'What do you mean!' he laughed. 'That sonnet is inexpressably beautiful, Bunny. You heathen!'

'I didn't say it wasn't; I said it was morbid. Elizabeth Barrett Browning is so depressing. Why does it always have to end with someone being dead? Can't you recite, I don't know, Lord Tennyson, or one of Shakespeare's jollier ones, or something?'

'Bunny, my dear chap, you can't _acknowledge_ me reciting maudlin poetry to you; it takes all of the romance out of it.' 

'It doesn't,' I said behind a smile, pulling his hand to my lips and brushing a kiss over his fingers. 'Soft old fool.'

'Less of the old,' Raffles chastised me, though I could hear the smile in his voice.

'Soft and fool are acceptable adjectives, though?'

'I've never been one to deny my faults, Bunny!' he joked; and for some reason him making light of himself like that cut me to the quick, and I suddenly felt the need to hold him more tightly.

'They're not faults,' I muttered against his shirt. 'You _are_ soft, Raffles. Soft, and ridiculous, and beautiful, and completely _perfect_.' 

'Now who is being mawkish?' said he, scruffing up my hair and pinching my ear; though I didn't receive the lecture against villain-worship with which he usually graced me whenever I waxed too lyrical over him, and I couldn’t help but think he sounded just a _little pleased._

Something had changed between us over the course of that summer. It was as though A.J. had finally accepted, or perhaps understood, that when I said I loved him, I meant it. Not that he'd thought me lying, before, but more as if he had always been waiting for me to see the light; always waiting for the scales to fall from my eyes and for me to see him for what he really was. As though I hadn't already seen him at his best and his worst, boy and man, fair and foul, right and wrong, hero and villain all a hundred times over! As though I were merely yet another sycophantic fool like all the rest, seeing only that which I wished to see rather than that which was truly there. He was half right, though, I did see only what I wished to see; but all that I wished to see was A.J. Raffles in his entirety, for better and for worse. 

As we lay together beneath that ancient tree, dappled sunlight pouring through the leaves and casting all our world in dancing golds and greens; as I looked out across the rolling landscape which shifted and rippled as the wheat fields billowed in the breeze; as the sun-soaked hills of the far distance slid unfocused into the endless cerulean sky, an overwhelming sense of privilege and gratitude washed over me and made me feel quite dizzy. For I _had_ seen Raffles at his best and at his worst. I had seen him brilliant and dazzling and ingenious, in cricket and in crime and in conversations which continued long into the small hours. I had seen him cocksure and full of himself, confident and wicked and dripping with charm; and I had seen him angry, and vulnerable, and petulant, and afraid. I had seen him serious, brooding, sulking, snapping; bright, silly, boisterous, and blithe. I had watched him sleep and slept beside him, and I had sat up with him when he was unable. I’d taken joy in him merry and gay, and worried over him withdrawn and melancholic. I had caught for myself his infectious spirit of adventure -- and suffered its penalties, too. I had seen A.J. Raffles as few ever had opportunity, each glittering facet of him set against every shadowed depth, each all the more beautiful for the other, and all the more complicated, and all the more impossible not to fall in love with.

And _he_ wanted _me_ with _him_ , for no other reason than the pleasure of my company! I couldn't understand it. I couldn’t comprehend what someone as remarkable as A.J. Raffles ever saw in someone so unremarkable as me. I couldn't even begin to fathom my good luck.

I looked up at him, then, hoping to steal a glance at him unnoticed, only to find him gazing down at me, watching me carefully with a strange, serious, soft expression.

‘We should do this more often,’ he said.

And I agreed. 


	5. 7: Fancy

_Ever let the Fancy roam,  
_ _Pleasure never is at home:  
_ _At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,  
_ _Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;  
_ _Then let winged Fancy wander  
_ _Through the thought still spread beyond her:  
_ _Open wide the mind's cage-door,  
_ _She'll dart forth,_ _and cloudward soar.  
_ _O sweet Fancy! let her loose;  
_ _Summer’s joys are spoilt by use,  
_ _And the enjoying of the Spring  
_ _Fades as does its blossoming._

_~ Fancy, by John Keats_

* * *

In the very early days of mine and Raffles’ reunion, long before Ham Common and Earl’s Court; long before his exile and my prison sentence; before even our adventures with forged paintings, chests of silver, and purple diamonds; back in the days when our new friendship was still igniting with the white-hot flame of limerence and we were rediscovering as adults the children we had both once known, A. J. and I often sat up together long into the small hours, talking. It had been a great deal of time since I’d had a friend in whom I could so easily confide, and with whom I felt I could say almost anything without causing offence or receiving the passive, insidious judgement with which so many of my other acquaintanceships had been poisoned from the outset. Raffles was so different from anyone else I had ever known. He was as frank, as charming, and as eloquent as ever a man was, and more kind, perceptive, interesting, and witty than anyone I’d ever met. He was dazzling. And in spite of the uneasiness which I felt over the criminality that had heralded our burgeoning relationship, I felt more at ease in Raffles’ company than I’d ever done in any others’; he was rapidly becoming the only person whose company I actively sought. The evenings we spent doing nothing more than sitting alone together in his rooms or mine were some of the most contended evenings I’d spent since my childhood's, alone in my little tower-room at home, reading my books and writing childish poetry. My short adult life had already begun to wear on me; it chipped away at my spirit, crushed out my hopes, and dampened my passions; but an evening in the company of A. J. Raffles always did much to revive them. 

This was one such evening.

‘They all just end up so _settled_. No one takes real risks, no one has any adventures, they just get married and live nice, respectable, mundane little lives with the people they suppose they love. It’s all _happily ever after_ , which is all well and good for a month or so, I suppose, but then what? That’s the end of it, if these novels are to be believed: Marriage heralding the end of one’s interesting existence; a thing to be celebrated rather than mourned! And that, my dear chap, is why I’ve never been very taken with Austen.’

Raffles concluded his invective against my beloved Jane with a serious tone and a mischievous glitter in his bright blue eyes. I can see him now as clearly as if he were still in front of me, sitting sideways in his deep old armchair, his long legs kicked over the armrest, a nearly-emptied tumbler of whiskey in one hand, and the ubiquitous Sullivan’s cigarette in the other. 

‘You’re missing the whole point of all of it, A.J.; and I’ll convince you otherwise, eventually,’ I laughed. I was on my third whiskey and soda, and feeling rather more than a little merry. ‘Jane Austen is -- she is _magnificent,’_ I said, barely slurring the words. ‘Genius. Complete genius. I’m surprised at you not liking her; usually you have such good taste. Rossetti.’

‘What?’

‘You like Rossetti. Christina. Christina Rossetti. And you like Verne, and Eliot, and Shelley, and Keats, and-- and-- whatshername? Who wrote _The Mysteries of Udolpho?_ ’

‘Ann Radcliffe.’

‘Yes, and her too. I think you are just being a cuh-- a cont--’

‘A what?!’

‘A _contrarian_ ,’ I finally managed. ‘But I’ll win you round to my side, A. J. Raffles. Don’t you just see if I won’t. Don’t. Will. Or something.’

Raffles laughed again, and the sound was like music to my ears. ‘You know, I wouldn’t bet against you doing just that, Bunny. You’re a persuasive little cuss when you want to be.’

‘I’m not so little.’

‘I remember you always protesting that when we were at school.’

‘I did _hate_ it when you called me little, or treated me like a child, Raffles. It irritated me to no end.’

‘Yes, that was devilishly cruel of me, wasn’t it? Though I didn’t mean it to be at the time. There is nothing worse to a child than being called one. And you were such a nice little chap, too.’

‘I was a little idiot.’

‘You were sweet,’ said Raffles, more kindly than truthfully. ‘And scared, and stubborn, and loyal to a fault.’

‘ _Id_ _iot_.’

‘Still stubborn, I can see,’ he smiled, shaking his head. ‘And all the rest.’

‘A. J.?’

‘Mm?’

‘Do you not ever want to--? You know, because you don’t like Austen because the heroes and heroines all just… settle down together. Get married, and have houses and gardens and cooks, and all the rest of it. S’what lots of people do, you know, except often enough not with people they like; though I suppose some people must like each other well enough, or there wouldn’t be any children, and there seems to be hundreds of the things running about these days. And there’d be a lot more murders, probably. Do you ever want to?’

‘Want to what, Bunny?’ Raffles answered flippantly. ‘Commit murder? Can’t deny it’s crossed my mind a few times.’

‘No, no. Get, you know, _married_. Settle down. Give up all -- _this_ , and… Well. Get married!’

‘Why should I want to do a thing like that?’

‘I don’t know. It’s what people do, isn’t it?’

‘Do they? Which people?’

‘But love is nice, don’t you think? Isn’t it? I think it is. I think... Not that I would know, but-- But what I mean to say is, don’t you ever hope to... You were always so fond of romance; all your favourite poetry is full of the stuff. Keats, and Browning, and Dickinson, and-- What I mean is that they are always going on about love. I just wondered if you didn’t think about it too. Love. Marriage. All that.’

‘Are love and marriage synonymous?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that, but they do certainly go quite well together. Like whiskey and soda. Or fish and chips.’

‘Ah, spoken like a true romantic poet.’

‘You know what I mean, though. Do you really think it’s all that bad, the idea of, I don’t know, throwing your hat in with someone else, til death do you part?’

‘Should I think it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you plan on it yourself, Bunny?’

‘What, getting married? I-- I don’t know. I don’t-- I don’t know. If I found someone I really loved, perhaps. Someone I didn’t ever want to be without, who-- who made my life better for being in it; someone who I really _knew_ , and loved, and-- Why would anyone not want that?’

‘Til death do you part is a long time,’ Raffles replied, voice heavy with scepticism, brow sardonically arched. ‘I don’t know that love often lasts as long as all that.’

‘I think it does.’

‘How old are you, Bunny? Twenty-four?’

‘Yes.’

Raffles laughed. ‘Well, then.’

‘I don’t see what that signifies! You’re only four years older than me, Raffles.’

‘Three and half, my dear fellow.’

‘Well, then! Does something happen between twenty-four and twenty-eight to make you so much more cynical?’

‘Do I seem so cynical to you?’

‘Yes!’

‘Where’s the cheek that doth not fade, too much gazed at? Where’s the maid whose lip mature is ever new? It’s not cynicism if it’s true. Many people think themselves in love, my boy, only to soon find they don’t love a real person at all, but an idea of one; an idealised creation of their own imagining; a mere flight of fancy. Actual pleasure is far less enduring.’

‘Like bubbles when rain pelteth,’ I quoted back to him absently, thoughtfully, half-drunkenly, and Raffles face lit up.

‘By Jove, you _do_ know your Keats, don't you, Bunny!’

‘Yes, but I never agreed with that poem,’ I carried on with a frown. ‘Fancy is all well and good, but it’s never as good as _real_ things, even if it lasts longer. _Because_ it lasts longer! It’s like-- It’s like _Ode to a Grecian Urn_ , if you catch my meaning. That perfect beauty doesn’t change; it’s _too_ perfect; it’s cold and unfeeling, and it loses something in being so eternal, somehow, or--’ I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I do know that I’d rather embrace living imperfection than live with a perfect fantasy, no matter how beautiful and timeless it was.’

‘You say that now, Bunny, but I should like to see any person who can uphold such ideals when faced with the very real flaws of their _objet d’amor_.’

‘Well, I for one would love a person all the more for seeing their flaws,’ I insisted, stubbornly. ‘When I love someone, really, truly love them, love them enough to stick with them for better and for worse, then it will be because of their flaws, not in spite of them or for want of seeing them. When I love someone, it’ll be for every last bit of them. You’re wrong, Raffles, and so is John Keats. Pleasure that melts away so easily isn’t real pleasure at all, and love that fades with youth and beauty was never love at all, it was just -- lust, or, well, _fancy_. _Fancy_ is the thing that’s weak, and flimsy, and -- but love, real, true, genuine _love_ , that’s as strong as steel.’

Raffles leaned back in his seat, resting his cheek against the back pillow of his chair and taking a long drag of his cigarette, blowing a neat ring of smoke before speaking once again. 

‘Perhaps I am cynical. And perhaps you, dear Bunny, are the exception which proves the rule; in which case I envy whoever it is you one day love.’ Raffles spoke with a curious and unexpected air of melancholy which disappeared as swiftly as it arrived, as he then turned to me with a wicked and flippant smile that caught me quite off guard. ‘But I hardly believe that Marianne Dashwood and Colonel Brandon have anything quite like what _you_ describe. Nor your precious Mr Darcy and his intolerable Miss Bennett, at that! No, those marriages would become hell on earth within three years, you mark my words Bunny. Little wonder Austen never wrote sequels; _Divorce and Disenchantment_ doesn’t have quite the same romantic ring to it!’

‘You’re awful,’ I said, throwing a cushion at his head, missing my mark wildly. ‘I don’t think you mean half the things you say; you just like to wind me up!’

‘Wind you up and watch you go, Bunny, my boy!’ he laughed, scooping up my tossed pillow from the floor and pitching it back at me with much better aim. 

‘Well, I’m not going to be wound up,’ I said, tucking the cushion behind my head and laying back to stare up at the ceiling. ‘So carry on being as annoying as you like; I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Are you not?’

‘No,’ I answered, more resolute in my insobriety than I would have been otherwise. ‘Tease me all you like; I’m staying right here with you.’

As I spoke, the clock on Raffles’ mantel struck two, and I groaned.

‘Oh, God, is that really the time? I have to go! I didn’t realise it was so late.’

‘You said that at one, Bunny,’ Raffles laughed. ‘And at twelve.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes; and yet here you still are, true to your word.’

‘What?’ I said, pushing myself up and pinching the bridge of my nose as the room lurched sideways. ‘Well, I’m sorry, in any case. I’ll actually leave now. I have imposed upon your hopstill-- hospol--’

‘Hospitality?’

‘That’s the one. I’ve imposed on it long enough. I’ll go.’ And I staggered to my feet with a slight wobble, the room only slightly spinning, now. ‘I’ll go.’

I blinked and looked down to find Raffles’ steadying hand on my arm. 

‘Impose a little longer,’ he smiled. ‘Come on; I’ll sleep on the sopha, you can have my bed. I think stairs might prove a little too much for you right now, old boy.’

‘No,’ I protested feebly even as I allowed him to gently drag me in the direction of his bedroom. ‘I don’t want to impose any more. _I_ will sleep on the sopha, A.J., and _you_ can sleep in _my_ bed.’

‘Oh, can I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, old chap, most generous of you. But if I’m in your bed, who is in my bed?’

‘Oh. No one, I suppose.’

‘Well then, if it’s empty anyway, you might as well take it, hadn’t you?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that!’

‘Didn’t think you had,’ he said with a grin, pushing me down onto the bed and reminding me to take off my shoes and collar before falling asleep.

‘Where’re you going?’ 

‘To sleep, Bunny.’

‘Perchance to dream, eh what?’

‘And break the mesh of Fancy’s silken leash, no doubt.’

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing. Goodnight, Bunny.’

‘A. J., I just want to say, I am very glad I know you again, you know,’ I said as I swung my shoeless feet up onto his blankets and fiddled with my collar, my eyes heavy and my grip clumsy. ‘You are-- You are a good chap, Raffles. A real top chap. A real nice, good, clever, handsome, wonderful sort of a chap, and a proper pal, and I really-- Oh, blast this damned collar…’

‘Come here,’ I heard him say quietly, and in a moment there he was leaning over me, close enough to smell the smoke on his jacket, the whiskey on his breath. ‘Let me help you before you choke yourself to death.’

I must have had more to drink than I’d paid attention to, for as his fingers, surprisingly soft, brushed against my skin as he undid my pearl collar pin and tugged the stiff, starched collar from off of my neck, I found myself reaching up and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. For just a moment he did not pull away, his eyes closed, his breath warm against my cheek as he exhaled with a soft sigh. And then with his hands moving to my shoulders, he gently pushed me back down onto the bed. 

‘Sleep it off, old boy,’ he said as he straightened up and turned to walk away. 

‘Sorry,’ I murmured.

At my apology, Raffles stopped at the door to look back at me, tilting his curly head and wearing an expression as soft as it was sad, and infused with such a curious wealth of emotion that it did little to steady my beating rabbit heart.

‘Sweet dreams, Bunny. I’ll see you in the morning. Or, rather, the later morning, as it were.’

‘And you. Sweet dreams, I mean. Of Summer, and Autumn, and Spring, all mixed up in one cup where winged Fancy roams -- or something like that,’ I mumbled, already more than half in Morpheus’ tender grip.

‘Yes,’ I heard him sigh, still standing at the door as my eyes drifted shut and the real world faded to the world of imagination and fancy and dreams, ‘something like that, my dear Bunny. Something like that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44471/fancy
> 
> Link for the full text of John Keats’ poem, _Fancy._ It is very pretty, and sort of melancholic, and something I can see a younger, pre-Bunny Raffles relating to quite strongly. And then he finds Bunny, whose love is very real, and very lasting, and so much better than any idealised, ephemeral fantasy. Ohhhhh.... -cries-


	6. 9:Throw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to my school-days story _A Good Turn_ .  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514392/chapters/61901614

This story has been REPOSTED as a standalone story in order to form part of my _Before The Ides of March_ series!!

Fine here <https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121876>

Sorry for any INCONVENIENCE!! (it's a good one, I recommend reading it ;p pahahah!)

Wolfie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story thread continues in Chapter 13: Rip  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755156/chapters/66354676


	7. 11: Disgusting

When Raffles opened the door to me with a snarl and a snappish _‘What?’_ , I felt reasonably confident in inferring that his mood had not yet improved.

‘Oh, it's you. Sorry, Bunny,’ he said with a sigh upon realising it was I who had disturbed him, letting me in with a weary step and pinching the bridge of his nose as he went. ‘Come in, if you like; but you shan’t find me any kind of company, I’m afraid.’

‘Still having trouble with the Meredith crib?’ I asked, hanging up my coat and hat.

‘ _Bl_ _ast_ that man,’ Raffles cursed. ‘His household is _impenetrable_ , Bunny; or at least I can’t find any way of getting into it. There _must be_ something, some exploit, some notch in the armour somewhere, but I’m damned if I can see it.’

‘Why don’t you give it up, old chap?’

‘Give -- it -- _up_?’ replied Raffles sharply, with a curl of his lip and an incredulous eye.

‘Well, there’s nothing so exceptional to take, is there? The man has a few diamonds of his own, but he has no wife, and the stuff he inherited from his Aunt, whilst certainly worth a bit, might be found in any number of much easier houses around these parts. It doesn’t seem to me worth getting so worked up over!’

‘The man is a _cad_ ,’ Raffles said, lighting up a cigarette and shooting me as dark a glare as if I had been defending Stephen Meredith rather than simply suggesting he was not worth burgling.

‘You’re just upset because he insulted me.’

‘You, and the England cricket team, and our most glorious Monarch, Bunny, and every other thing under the sun that the stupid ass can think of to insult. That man has offended me, and I don’t intend to let the offence slide. I _will_ gain satisfaction, Bunny; I am not a duelling man, but by Jove I will take a shot at him, and aim where it hurts. If only I can get into his _blasted house_!’

I helped myself to a Sullivan. ‘It’s not like you to be so foxed by someone, A. J.,’ I said. ‘And Meredith doesn’t seem such a clever sort of chap.'

Stephen Meredith was a quarrelsome young cuss at one of the Clubs Raffles and I frequented, with a handsome stupid face* and a sharper tongue than wit. That he, or, at least his estate, had so confounded Raffles, who was by far and away the cleverest man I had ever met, seemed to me beyond the realms of the plausible.

‘He’s not,’ Raffles said, falling to pacing. ‘But he surrounds himself with clever people. His father worked for the government, and he was notoriously anxious over burglars; Meredith inherited the house and all of the precautions along with it; _and_ the riches within!'

‘Which really aren’t all that substantial!’ I rejoined. ‘Not really. I know he is an ass, but you’ve been spending _weeks_ on this, A. J., and you don’t seem any closer to figuring it out than you were when you started. And we’re running out of money.’

‘If men gave up when faced with adversity, what would the world come to, Bunny? If we cannot even keep the promises which we make to ourselves, how can we keep those we make to anyone else? If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul!’

‘Honor, A. J.?’ I laughed. ‘I don’t see that there’s much honor in burgling.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he answered me most seriously. ‘There is as much honor in crime as in, well, in anything else you can think of, provided one goes about it honorably. And it is _perseverance_ , as the bard said, which keeps honor bright. No, I’ll stick it out. I’ll think of something, just you wait, Bunny. I just need to look at it from a different angle…’

‘And in the meantime we can _honorably_ dodge our debt collectors,’ I muttered, and Raffles waved my words away with an impatient gesture.

‘Push off, Bunny,’ he said, irritably. ‘I need to think. ...Actually,’ he added in a curious tone as I made to leave, only mildly wounded by the attitude that I had long since come to expect of him in these moods, ‘meet me at the Club tomorrow, won't you? I’ll buy you dinner.’

When we arrived the next evening, we found the Club was unusually busy. A substantial party of wealthy Australians had been invited by one of the older members, including a few noted names, and word had quickly circulated. The desire for fresh conversation and gossip from further afield than the usual purview, not to mention the chances to strike up potentially prosperous business alliances with the nouveau riches of the colonies, had drawn in members all and sundry, including a number of faces I hadn’t seen for months, some for years, and one whom I had erroneously assumed dead. But I have never been partial to loud, large events, and it was with a grimace and a word of complaint in his ear that I followed the striding and ever-charismatic Raffles into the midst of the throng.

‘Oh, I say, is that Raffles? Hoy, Raffles, come and meet my new friend!’

I glanced at A. J. as Stephen Meredith heralded him from across the room, but of course Raffles’ face betrayed not even the barest hint of the intense loathing in which I knew he held the man. 

‘Good evening, Meredith. I don't believe I know--’

‘Now,’ Meredith cut in, that repulsive glimmer in his bright eyes which always appeared as he prepared to say something he thought clever, ‘Randolph, you mustn’t think that we make a habit of allowing pets into the Club; for some reason they make an exception for Mr Raffles and his _lap dog_.’

‘What?’ the dark-haired, Australian-accented gentleman asked, visibly confused as his eyes searched the floor for the promised mutt. 

‘I believe,’ Raffles said with a smile as smooth as a blade, ‘that Mr Meredith here was making a joke at the expense of my friend, Mr Manders.’

‘Oh,’ the Australian said in a slightly crestfallen tone. ‘I was rather hoping there was a dog. I like dogs. Though I am sure that you are just as pleasant company as even the most endearing of terriers, Mr Manders,’ he added with an appealing and amiable eye, extending a hand to myself and Raffles in turn whilst Stephen Meredith sulked. ‘Pleased to meet you both. Name’s Randolph. Irving.’

‘Raffles, Arthur,’ A. J. replied with a friendlier smile than he had offered Meredith.

‘Harry,’ I said in turn.

‘Harry Manders? The writer?’

Raffles looked more pleased than I at my recognition, though no less surprised. 

‘What?’ I said. ‘I-- That is to say, yes, I am but-- Well, I-- I’ve only published a few articles and short stories and the odd humorous verse, and nothing at _all_ of note. How the devil did you--’

‘I pay attention to the papers,’ the man cut me off with a grin. ‘Your articles covering various burglaries and frauds in the city, and what have you, are written with a real flair for narrative, Mr Manders. Usually these things lay out the basics and then jump straight to moralising; you paint a vivid _picture_ of the event; and you always seem to pick the most interesting ones to write about. Honor to meet you!’

‘I-- thank you,’ I replied, more perplexed than flattered. Usually it was Raffles on the receiving end of praise and recognition from strangers. I wasn’t certain I liked it; though A. J. was, of course, beaming. He had encouraged me to write in the hopes of precisely this outcome; if I were known as a writer, people wouldn’t think to ascribe any other _career_ to me, and yet another layer of security would be laid over our nefarious double-lives. 

‘I never read those dreadful penny-papers, myself,’ Meredith chimed in. ‘All salacious, fear-mongering nonsense, if you ask me.’

‘Did anyone?’ Raffles commented blandly, drawing a stifled chuckle from the Australian and an icy glare from the quip’s victim.

‘Oh, very quick, Raffles, very quick,’ Meredith smiled through gritted teeth, and Irving Randolph caught my eye, raising a quizzing and amused eyebrow. ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Your dog will be whining for a bone if you don’t feed it soon.’

‘Quick, Meredith,’ Raffles repeated back with a bone-dry sarcasm which was sustenance enough for me, ‘very quick. You should write for _Punch_.’

‘Unlike some people’s, my name carries _gravitas_ ,’ Meredith replied, haughty now that his constant attempts at wit had once again fallen flat. ‘If I had been born into a family of little consequence, I should gladly write for the papers; but as it stands I’d rather maintain my dignity.’

‘He is richest who is content with least,’ Raffles smiled. ‘A sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Randolph.’

‘And yours, Mr Raffles. And yours too, Mr Manders; if you are around later, let me buy you a drink and we can talk some more about your writing career.’

‘Gladly!’

‘And you too, Mr Raffles.’

‘We shall look forward to it. Until then, good evening, gentlemen,’ Raffles said with a polite bow, and swept us both off to dinner.

‘Wait,’ Meredith called after us, having been stood with a silently furrowed brow, ‘what the deuce was _that_ supposed to mean, Raffles?’

To my surprise, I found Raffles’ spirits much buoyed during dinner. He made no mention of Meredith, nor of the perniciously sticky wicket he’d been up against in finding the Achilles Heel of the cuss’s house, and I could only assume that he had given up on the thing as useless, as I had suggested. 

‘What do you make of that fine Australian chap recognising your name then, Bunny?’ Raffles asked me as we dined.

‘I don’t know _what_ to make of it,’ I said. ‘Honestly, it’s a bit disconcerting. I didn’t think anyone even _read_ my writing, let alone cared for it enough to remember my name.’

‘How is that disconcerting? I’d think you’d be proud; I certainly am!’

‘When you hurl things into the void, it’s unsettling when the void throws back a complimentary note…’

Raffles laughed and shook his head at me. ‘You are a funny little rabbit, aren’t you?’

‘It’s useful though, I suppose. If people are starting to recognise me for my writing, they won’t think of attaching me to anything _else_ ; just like you wanted!’’

‘Oh, yes!’ Raffles cried, as though he hadn’t thought of that. ‘I hadn’t thought of that! I was just glad you were finally getting the appreciation you deserve, old chap. By Jove, this evening really is going from strength to strength,’ he added with a glitter in his bright grey eye which made me sit up and take apprehensive note.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘What else has gone well?’

But Raffles merely smiled enigmatically and shrugged, before calling the waiter for the bill.

When we made our slow way back to the smoking room after dinner, Raffles and I soon found ourselves not unhappily accosted by the Australian, Mr Randolph, who had succeeded over the past hour and a half in finally ditching Mr Meredith.

‘Not that it was an easy thing to shift him,’ Randolph said, puffing on his cigar. ‘I think someone told the chap I’m in the gold mining business. Kept going on about the importance of foreign investment, and the value of the standard. I let him carry on, of course,’ the man added with a wry grin. ‘When he finally realised he’d gotten me mixed up with some other bloke the look on his face could have cut glass!’

‘Serves him right,’ I said, taking another sip of my whiskey and soda, ‘for being so mercenary.’

‘What is it that you do, Mr Randolph?’ Raffles asked.

‘I’m in newspapers,’ the man shrugged. ‘Own a few of those, ah, what was the phrase? _Salacious, fear-mongering, dreadful penny-papers_.’

‘Do you, really?’ I asked, not bothering to mask my interest. ‘What, in Australia?’

‘Yes; though I’m looking to branch out to America and England -- hence this trip,’ he added laconically. ‘Here’s my card. I’m always looking for reliable writers of quality. I’m still scouting the viability of franchising out over here, and though it’s not looking likely at the moment, if you ever find yourself in Melbourne and in need of a job, pay my offices a visit!’

‘I-- Thank you!’ I said. ‘I will! If I’m ever in Australia, that is.’

Raffles looked as though he were about to speak, when suddenly a commotion sparked up from the direction of the coat rooms.

‘What do you _mean_ it isn’t there? How can it not be there! I placed it there myself! -- No, I don’t have my _ticket_ , I _never_ bother with tickets, I’m here every hour of the day, why should I get a-- Goddamnit, just let me past! Let me look for myself, you incompetent fool!’

The voice shouting was easily recognisable as that of Meredith.

I glanced at A. J., and he arched one amused eyebrow. ‘Drama?’

And drama there was indeed. Stephen Meredith had gone to retrieve his coat from the coatroom, only to be informed that it was not there, at which point the man had flown into an irrational fury and forced his way in to inspect the room for himself. Alas, he had no more success than the poor, beleaguered attendant, and when he finally emerged back out, coatless, it was with a pale face.

‘It’s just a coat, Stephen,’ one of the man’s cronies said with a hearty smile and a hand upon his shoulder. ‘I don’t see why you are so put out about it, old man!’

‘It’s not just a coat,’ Meredith snapped at him through drawn lips. ‘It’s-- I _need_ to find that coat. What in the Hell kind of Club is this where a man can’t leave his coat unattended in confidence? I will _not_ stand for this, do you hear me? I will -- not -- stand -- for it!’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the attendant, either brave or foolish enough to face the impotent wrath of Meredith, ‘but are you sure you left it with us? You don’t have a ticket--’

‘I _know_ I don’t have a ticket! I don’t need a glorified _hatstand_ to tell _me_ what I do and do not have! I will be speaking to the manager about this, you mark my words! If you think that I will be renewing my membership of this _travesty_ of an establishment after this--’

‘Calm down, old boy,’ said another of Meredith’s friends. ‘Perhaps you left it somewhere else; in the carriage, perhaps, or even at home?’

‘No! I had it with me! I know I did because it had-- Oh, nevermind what it had, but I know I had it with me.’

‘Why does it matter so much, it’s just a coat?’ piped in our new Australian acquaintance. ‘Surely a man as rich as yourself can’t be too cut up over the loss of a coat?’

‘It’s not the _coat_ , it’s-- It’s what was in it...’

‘Why?’ Randolph asked. ‘What was in it?’

Meredith swallowed and fiddled nervously with his diamond cufflinks -- far too showy to be wearing for an evening at the Club, but Stephen Meredith was never one to hide his wealth, relatively unimpressive as it was, if he had opportunity to display it. ‘A string of pearls, three diamond rings, and ruby brooch,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘Inherited from my aunt. They’re worth over five hundred pounds.’

‘What!’ Randolph cried; and though he had the decency not to laugh, he couldn’t keep the amusement from his warm brown eyes. 

‘Good Lord,’ Raffles rejoined, voice full of solicitous concern. ‘Meredith, my dear fellow, I can see why you are so distraught! But what on earth were you playing at bringing them to the Club? And leaving them in your coat pocket of all places? Doesn’t seem the most prudent course of action, old boy.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me that,’ Meredith snapped. ‘I’m supposed to be playing Baccarat this evening, and I wanted to make sure I had-- Well, one’s resources aren’t always _liquid_ , and if I had a good hand I didn’t want to have to fold. In any case, what do I want with a load of women’s jewelry? I have no wife, and when I do I can afford to buy her new jewels! I don’t see why I shouldn’t wager them, they are mine, after all!’

‘Yes, but bringing them out with you...’ Raffles said, tutting and shaking his head sombrely. ‘Wouldn’t they take your word as a bet?’

‘No,’ Meredith said, darkly.

‘I thought baccarat was outlawed a few years back,’ Randolph pondered aloud. 

‘Oh, well, yes, but no one pays any mind to that; even the Prince plays, so I don’t see why-- Oh, this is _pointless_! I’m wasting my time with you _people,_ ’ -- Meredith could spit more venom into the word “people” than the worst of obscenities -- ‘when what I need to do is find my coat!’

‘Quite,’ I said, eloquently; and the three of us watched as the horrible little man retreated, his entourage in tow, to harass everyone he could come across in pursuit of his outer coat and jewelled inheritance.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Irving Randolph with a grin. ‘A theft of a coat, an illegal baccarat game, and a handful of missing jewels. I never realised London Gentlemen's Clubs were so riddled with crime and intrigue! Something else for you to write about, Mr Manders?’

‘Oh, I say, that’s a dashed good idea!’ Raffles said with feeling. ‘You should do that, Bunny!’

‘I don’t think Meredith would like that...;’

‘I daresay he won’t,’ Raffles replied with a mischievous grin. ‘But journalistic integrity, my dear Bunny, must take precedence.’

‘Your Mr Raffles is right, Manders: A good journalist puts _the truth_ ahead of sentiment. This is a matter of public interest,’ Randolph said to me in the tones of a master schooling a promising pupil. ‘And anyway,’ he added, ‘that Meredith bloke is a stupid ass; he deserves what he gets. Teach him to talk like that about penny-papers...Tell you what; you get something written up before a week Monday, and I’ll give you half a sovereign myself for the exclusive rights to it in Australia. I’ll take it back with me and stick it in my most popular paper.’

‘Oh! Will you really?’

‘Absolutely. Stuck up English so-called-gentleman getting his just desserts? They’ll eat it up. Do we have a deal?’

I blinked, uncertain; but upon meeting Raffles’ proud and encouraging eye, I shook the Australian newshound by the hand and promised to send something to him by the end of the week.

‘Well,’ Raffles said with a cheerful, innocent smile, ‘this evening certainly has proved profitable! Except for poor old Meredith. I almost feel sorry for the chap. Though he really was asking for it.’ 

I caught A. J.’s eye pointedly, and the minute flicker of his eyebrows as he flashed a glittering look back at me told me everything I needed to know. 

‘Do you? I don’t,’ said Randolph between puffs of his cigar. ‘I hope whoever pinched that coat gets away with it. Good luck to them I say. I only wish I were going to be in the country long enough to see that idiot’s face when he sees that you have written--

Randolph stopped mid-sentence as the bellowing, whining voice of Stephen Meredith rang out from the manager’s office, which a carefully innocent looking attendant had _accidentally_ kicked open, allowing all the room to better hear.

‘This is _precisely_ why the _good_ Clubs remain _Members -- Only_ ! What in the hell do you expect to happen when you let in _colonials_. You know they’re all the descendants of criminals, don’t you? Letting them overrun the place, no wonder this sort of thing happens! Asking for things to get stolen, that’s what you are doing! It’s _disgusting!_ ’ 

‘Oh, make sure you include _that_ in your article,’ Randolph said to me, eyes bright. ‘ _Verbatim_.’

***

Raffles and I walked home together arm in arm beneath the twinkling stars, the light of the silvery moon shimmering over his curls, as ink-black as the midnight heavens. 

'Bunny, could you do me a favour, my dear chap?' he asked as we said our goodbyes at my front door, after he had demurely refused my offer that he stay the night, claiming he had pressing business to which he needed to attend. 'Would you be a top and pick up my coat from the Club for me tomorrow? I've left it in the coatroom. Here's my ticket.'

I stared up at him with a look of feigned innocence, playing along with his game and wishing he would change his mind about leaving; knowing he wouldn't, and knowing he would make it up to me tomorrow; knowing he had already made it up to me that night in defending my honor in the way only A. J. Raffles could, and in giving me the chance to take my own small revenge against that pompous ass Meredith at the same time.

'But you're _wearing_ your coat, A. J.?' I said, fingering the lapel.

'No,' he grinned, 'I'm not!'

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "with a handsome stupid face" -- this little description is lifted straight from Hornung's book _Peccavi_ , where he uses it to describe a police officer. I love it. It's so ridiculous. Handsome stupid face. Marvellous. What a thing to say about someone. Oh, Hornung. Had to steal it. Too good not to.


	8. 13: Dune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is 23:35, therefore this is officially not late, and therefore _I haven't lost yet_.
> 
> -breathes-

This chapter has been reposted as a standalone story, _[Dunes.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263698)_


	9. 15: Outpost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... ... sorry :/

Our run was drawing to a close; I could feel it. We’d fought a good fight, we’d put up our best show, we’d shown no cowardice and had nothing to be ashamed of; but sometimes you can do everything right and still lose. I was beginning to believe that we were destined to lose from the start. Defeat might have come in an hour, it might come in a minute, it didn’t matter when, for in my heart I knew only that it was inevitable, and that the end was nearer than it was far.

Raffles, of course, laughed at my pessimism, and did the little he could to bolster me up against it. He urged me to steel myself and enjoy the thrill of the fight; pressed me not to give up the side for lost; tried to boost my spirits with talk of how though we may be down, we were not yet out; told me to remember why we were doing this at all; reminded me to think of the Queen. I didn’t know whether his dogged and daredevil optimism was pretense for my sake or for his own -- for surely even he must have known in his heart that this was futile. A few lucky runs might give us false hope; we might reel off a few good shots when the enemy was off his guard; and we might send a few spin bowls his way to set him back on it -- in the end none of it mattered. We were in over our heads.

But perhaps I was overthinking it. It was what it was, after all, and I had come into battle willingly. I couldn't justifiably lament things marching out as they had, when this was always the most likely outcome. No, it was not my part to question why, as Lord Tennyson so rightly put it, but to do, and die. 

‘Raffles, this is crazy,’ I murmured to him from the corner of my mouth, eying the battlefield before us, whispering for fear of being overheard. ‘We’re pinned down; there’s nothing we can do! Nowhere we can go!’

‘There’s always something, Bunny,’ he answered me, voice low, eyes scanning, hawklike and alert, for possibilities. He was as keen as ever he was, even then when we were so pushed up against it. Especially then. ‘There's always some other-- Ah-ha!'

‘What is it?'

‘An outpost, Bunny! How did I not see it before! That'll give him something to think about, by Jove!'

I gritted my teeth. ‘It’s risky, Raffles…’

‘Yes, but _risk_ , my boy,’ he replied with his eyes glittering, his heartening grip upon my arm, ‘risk is our _game!_ That’s our one advantage, Bunny; that we are willing to take the _risks_ no one ever expects us to take!'

'I'd rather our advantage was the ability to best the better man,' I muttered, jaded and tired, and he laughed.

‘I’m hoping that will be a by-product.’

I ran my tongue over dry lips; I could have killed for a whiskey in that moment, but Raffles had quite rightly insisted we both keep our minds sharp. ‘I suppose-- I suppose if we move to that outpost and hold the centre--’

‘Then every other attack _must_ follow almost of itself -- exactly, Bunny -- _exactly!’_

‘It's a big if though, A. J.,' I said, biting my lip and narrowing my eyes as I looked out at the prospect before us. My gaze wasn't so keen as his, but I kept hoping that perhaps I might just catch something he had missed. It had happened before, occasionally.

'Do you see any alternatives?' he asked, and for a moment I thought he was being sardonic, until I glanced up at him and caught the earnest look in his eyes. Raffles was as concerned as me, for all his bluster. For some reason that strengthened rather than weakened my resolve.

'No,' I said. 'You're right. That outpost is the only feasible option. I can’t see what else we can do, other than play right into his hands. I would rather go down giving Hell than surrender quietly.'

Raffles clapped me on the shoulder and pride shone from his eyes as he beamed down at me. ‘Quite right, that rabbit! Forward the Light Brigade!’

And so ahead we stormed, straight into the Jaws of Death. We took the outpost; we held the centre; in one fell move, Raffles and I single handedly pushed the enemy onto the backfoot and onto the defensive. I still didn’t think we had a chance in Hell of getting out of this victorious, or even without serious losses, but at least we’d have put up a damned good fight as we went. At least we had given him something to think about. 

We’d thought ourselves so prepared, coming into this. We’d followed it closely in the newspapers, after all, albeit at the start for want of anything better to do, and we thought in our naive arrogance that that was enough. We’d both believed that we _understood_ what it meant to stand toe to toe with the enemy in combat -- but reading about a thing is very different to facing it in the flesh. The pressure, the anxiety, the urgency that both dulled and sharpened the wits, it all brought out both the best and the worst in a man. I had made mistakes a child wouldn't have made; and shocked myself with sudden bursts of shrewdness. Even Raffles, who always at least appeared in his element no matter where he was or what he was doing, was clearly feeling the strain. And reading of losses was nothing compared to experiencing them for yourself; watching plans fail and pawns fall and feeling every second tick by as they counted you down towards the end -- there was no way to prepare yourself for that. We hadn't taken it seriously enough. We had wagered so much on so little. We were, I was certain, being punished for our hubris.

I don't know what we had expected. 

This was _war;_ smoke was hanging heavy in the air, and time was running short.

'What now?' I asked, glancing at Raffles, and when he didn't reply, I repeated my question.

'I'm thinking,’ he muttered.

'Can you think faster?'

'Not without you shutting up!' he snapped.

'We have to do something,' I continued, the pressure of time and of impending loss marshalling me more than Raffles' anger. 'We're running out of time, A. J.'

'I know,' he said, darkly, and I decided to take command. I could hold my own with tactics as well as he could, when I wanted to -- and even if I couldn't, it was better than sitting here and quietly waiting for the end. It was better than doing nothing. And maybe I could help.

'There are no weak points in his camp,' I said, surveying the field as objectively as I could, trying to keep my voice both quiet and steady. 'We can hold out here for as long as a piece of rope, but to what end? We have to move from the outpost or--'

'I know, I know,' Raffles said with a shake of his curly head. 'I'm beginning to think this was a bad move, Bunny. We're as pinned down as he is.'

'There wasn't anything else we could do,' I answered him, resolute. 'And anyway, it's done now, we can't change it.' 

That I was the one saying this to Raffles instead of him to me spoke only to the direness of our situation.

'We can't play this like Napoleon, Bunny,' he said. There will be no "battle of annihilation". If we can just hang on long enough to smoke him out, long enough for the fog of war to cloud his judgement so that he slips up just once -- that's all we need, Bunny. One mistake and we'll have him -- provided we keep our noses to the ground enough to notice it.'

'I don't think he is going to make a mistake, Raffles,' I said, staring out across the battlefield in the direction of our relentless enemy. ‘He's just going to wait us out -- and he can afford to. He has the room to move; we don't.'

'Ah, but he has no room to move that could serve any purpose,' Raffles rightly rejoined. 'He can't touch us unless we let him.'

'Yes, but we can't touch _him_ either, not if we keep our position as it is. We can't keep going back and forth. It's sudden death, and it's loaded in his favour.'

'I know,' Raffles said with a sudden grimness. ‘I was thinking exactly that. I was hoping I was wrong, but if you see it too then-- There’s only one thing we can do, Bunny.’

‘It’s our only option,’ I agreed.

‘Certainly the only one I can see.’

‘Me too.’

‘Send her out?’ he asked.

Send her out,’ I answered.

‘You’re sure? It’s a big risk, Bunny.’

‘Risk is our game, isn’t it?’ I said, a surge of adrenaline suddenly coursing through me. The time for stalling and defending was over. We had to go on the attack. ‘To hell with it!’

‘That’s my rabbit!’ Raffles grinned; and then he turned to face our fate. ‘Your majesty,’ he said, ‘I am afraid it is time for you to enter the fray. Good luck, your highness..’

And with that, we made our boldest, riskiest, perhaps most foolish decision yet; we sent the Queen herself out onto the battlefield. She was our last chance. The cavalry was pinned down. The church’s hands were tied. We’d lost our castles. The footsoldiers had been obliterated all but one. And the Queen was defending King and Country. Or she was, until we made her dash out into the middle and knock out a bishop.

‘Queen to D7,’ Raffles said, picking up the little black chess piece and moving her to her new square on the board. Before he could remove his fingers, the man sitting across from us, the _enemy_ , drew a sucking breath through his teeth.

‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. I’ll have you mated in two moves, if you do that.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Raffles. He’s bluffing.’

‘Mr Manders, this is chess, not poker. I’m not bluffing, just givin’ you a friendly word of advice, expert to novice.’

Looking up to meet international chess champion Laurence Hillsbury squarely in the eye, Raffles lifted his fingers from the chess piece, committing to the move with challenge pouring off of him in waves. I couldn’t help but feel a little thrill of excitement over that. There was nothing quite like Raffles when he was icily confident; it was irresistible.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Hillsbury shrugged, nonchalant. And to be fair to the man, he had indeed warned us; as he had promised, he had us checkmated in two moves. A .J. and I were both quite unjustifiably surprised at that; I’d thought it would have taken him at least four moves. I’d forgotten about his rook. 

Well, gentlemen,’ the American drawled, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. ‘I believe you owe me ten pounds.’

I managed to keep from groaning as I handed over the cash. 

‘Thank you,’ the man grinned. ‘I got to give it to you boys; that was a darin’ move you played there at the end. I was worried you were trying for a stalemate, keeping that knight of yours sittin’ on that outpost till the timer ran out. I still woulda won, of course, even if you’d attempted it, but I do hate those kinds of victories. I prefer a nice decisive sweep, just like what you gave me. Sending out your Queen like that an’ leavin’ your King undefended? I don’t know if you’re brave or foolish, but either way you’ve gotta respect men who take that kind of a risk!’

‘Well, that’s half the fun of a thing, isn’t it?’ Raffles said with a sparkle in his clear grey eye. ‘The risk?’

‘Maybe so, maybe so,’ Hillsbury replied as he lit yet another fat cigar. ‘That’s why I agreed to play the both of you two on one. Thought it might make it a bit more competitive, bring in a little more _risk_ . But a man can’t always get what he wants, eh?’ he laughed. ‘ Though in all seriousness, I do feel a mite guilty about takin’ your money. There’s no honour in doing that when there’s no _sport_ in it. And with all due respect, the pair of you together couldn’t even make me break a sweat. A bit too much like daylight robbery to be satisfyin’, if you catch my meaning. But that’s the English for you,’ he chuckled, turning to the room, predominantly made up of his own friends and servants who were presumably less inclined to smack him in the mouth than others might have been, ‘they’re the best at chess until America comes a’knockin’! Just like in everything else!’

‘A well-deserved victory,’ Raffles replied with a charm I recognised only too well. ‘It’s no dishonour to lose to an expert -- and you are clearly an expert in your field, Mr Hillsbury. Congratulations on your win.’

‘See? That’s _manners_ ,’ Hillsbury said, pointing a long finger at us as though we were museum exhibits. ‘That’s why you’re so likeable, you English. Gracious losers. I guess you’ve had enough experience with it!’ And the man fell about laughing once again.

I caught Raffles eye and he raised one eloquent eyebrow just enough that I and no one else would notice.

At the end of that entirely too-long evening, as we stepped out in the brisk autumn night, I shivered and pulled my coat more tightly around me, and A. J. offered me his scarf. 

‘Well,’ I said to Raffles as he slipped his gloved hand into the crook of my elbow and fixed his scarf around my neck, ‘that was taxing. I don’t think I’ve used my brain so hard since trig equations at school.’

‘It was a bit of a mental exercise, wasn’t it?’ Raffles agreed. ‘I’m almost ashamed to confess that going in I thought we actually stood a chance at winning. I wouldn’t have bet quite so much if I knew we’d take such a resounding loss. For all his faults, that Hillsbury is a devilishly good chess player; though for a moment there I really did think we might have him.’

‘So did I,’ I admitted, ‘if only for a moment. It didn’t seem so difficult when we were reading about it in the papers!’

‘Or whilst practicing against you, rabbit -- no offence.’

‘None taken. I really don’t think chess is our game. ’

‘I’m inclined to agree. Still, it was the best way I could think of to get a look at the place. That man is an egoist, Bunny, and wouldn’t back down from a challenge against his mother herself. Lucky for us, eh?’

‘You found out everything you needed to, then?’ I asked.

‘And more. It was the inside window fittings I really wanted a look at, but I got chatting to one of the maids before dinner and got some very useful information about Hillsbury’s valet, and about some minor building work he’s getting done on the place next week. And you?’

‘The same Yale locks as you expected,’ I nodded. ‘Oh, and a promising looking deadbolt on the bedroom door of the third room on the left.’ Raffles turned to me in surprise, eyebrows arched, and I grinned at him. ‘Pretended I got lost when looking for the bathroom and had a nose through the upstairs rooms.’

‘Oh, good show, that rabbit!’ he beamed, rubbing his hands together gleefully, a boyish skip in his step. ‘Yes! Even being ten pounds down on that blasted chess game, this evening has turned out to be _very_ profitable, my dear chap! Chess might not be our game after all, but by Jove, Bunny, I know what is!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... that "sorry" at the start being, of course, for writing such a fkn _dumb_ story for today's prompt! Pahahahahaha
> 
> You _may_ not have noticed, but I know nothing about chess. Apparently an "outpost" is a position involving a knight and a pawn and... it.... pins down the opposition and... something something holds the centre... Just pretend I know what I'm talking about. It's more fun that way.
> 
> I really wish I liked chess. I have tried very hard, all my life, to like chess. But I do not like chess. I do not understand chess. I can't even beat the computer on super easy mode at chess. 
> 
> Therefore Bunny and Raffles suck at chess too. If Hornung can project then godsdamnit, so can I!! 
> 
> Ooohhh we are now officially half way through Crime, Cricket, and Inktober -- EXCITING!


	10. 17: Storm

‘Afternoon, Beckett’ I said to the Albany’s doorman as I hurried beneath the cover of the entranceway and shook fat droplets of rain off of my hat. ‘Horrible weather!’

‘That it is, sir,’ Beckett replied in his usual phlegmatic tones. ‘Would it be Mr Raffles you’re looking for?’

‘Yes,’ I smiled, ‘as always!’

‘Ah, well, I’m afraid ‘e’s gorn out.’

My smile faded. ‘Gone out, has he? Again?’

‘Yes, sir, about an hour ‘n’ an arf since; I made it around five o’clock when ‘e left, and it’s just gorn ‘arf six now, so about an hour ‘n’ an ‘arf since ‘e left, or thereabouts.’

‘Did he say where he was going?

‘No.’

‘Did he say when he would be back?’

‘Didn’t mention it, no.’

‘And you actually saw him leave, did you, Beckett? In this weather?’

‘Yes I did, with my own two eyes, Mr Manders,’ said the doorman with some bristle. ‘I spoke to ‘im meself; reminded ‘im to take an umbereller as he ‘adn’t got ‘is with ‘im, and the sky was just startin’ to get grey as he was heading out. “You’ll be wanting an umbereller, Mr Raffles,” I said to ‘im, “that sky looks to be threatening some serious rain," an’ ‘e says “Quite right you are, Beckett,” an’ arsks me to borrow one a’ the ones we keep in the lodge. Good thing ‘e did too. More sense than you ‘ave-- you’re half-soaked! ...Sir.’

‘Is that so?’ I clicked my tongue against my teeth. ‘Look, can’t you just let me in anyway? I’ll wait for him.’

‘Ah, well, Mr Raffles said--’

‘Let me guess: Mr Raffles said not to let anyone up.’

‘That’s about the long and the short of it, sir.’

‘I’m not _anyone_ , Beckett! I’ve a key to the place, for God’s sake!’

‘Mr Raffles was quite adamant that--’

‘Is he still up there?’

‘I’m sorry?

‘Is Mr Raffles still upstairs?’

‘Are you _accusin_ ’ me of _lying_ , Mr Manders?’ he said, narrowing his eyes and making me feel guilty for even suggesting it -- though I still didn’t think it unlikely. Raffles could talk the Pope into confessing atheism.

‘No,’ I sighed. ‘If I’m accusing you of anything, it’s of being _loyal_ , Beckett -- and I’m jolly glad Raffles has got someone like you looking out for him. But you _know_ me, Beckett! Raffles wouldn’t mind you letting me up, whatever he might have said. You know that. _And_ you know that I mean it when I say I’m not leaving here until I see him. So you can either let me clutter up the entranceway for however long it takes for him to come back, or you can let me go up.’

Beckett huffed at me in a distinctly impolite manner before reluctantly letting me through and into the ropewalk with a shake of his grizzled head. ‘As it’s _you_ , Mr Manders… But you won’t find ‘im up there. ‘E really ‘as gorn out. I don’t know when he’ll be back; you might be waitin’ a while.’

‘Well then,’ I said with a defiant shrug, ‘it’s a good thing I brought a book with me, isn’t it? Thank you, Beckett,’ I added as I offered him a tip for his unwilling assistance. He eyed the coin irritably, but must have thought better than to refuse it for after only a brief hesitation snatched it out of my fingers. Pride is all well and good, but at the end of the day a shilling is a shilling.

With less spring in my step than that with which I’d arrived, I trudged up the stairs to Raffles’ rooms and steeled myself for a wait which might well run into the hours. It was not a wait I was looking forward to.

I hadn’t been entirely honest with Beckett. A book I had, but key I had not. I _had_ a key up until about a week before, but where the deuced thing had gotten to since, I had no idea. I’d searched high and low, every pocket of every coat, waistcoat, and pair of trousers, every drawer, and even behind the bed, all to no avail. I’d have told Raffles sooner -- had I seen him! It was the first week of June, and the cricket had been busy; but I knew he had returned from the counties at least five days ago, because I’d watched him playing up at Lords. I’d tried to catch him after play’s end, but he’d fobbed me off with some excuse before disappearing into the changing rooms; and I hadn’t seen nor heard a word from him since -- not for want of trying! 

If only I hadn’t lost that damned key, waiting for him wouldn’t be even half so tiresome.The prospect of sitting outside his door for God knows how long like The Little Match Girl was far from appealing; but I wasn’t about to let him give me the slip again, not today. It was too important. And if that meant camping out on his doorstep like Joshua outside Jericho then so be it. At least I was inside and out of the storm. Though it was wet, it was still June, and the weather though not warm was at least not icy cold. So down I sat with my back against the wall and my knees tucked up to my chest, and settled in to read my book.

After some time -- I can’t say how long as I hadn’t bothered to check my watch, but it must have been at least three quarters of an hour -- I was jolted with a start from my book by a short, sharp kick to my shin.

'I wasn't aware the British Library reading room had expanded to the hallways of the Albany.'

‘A. J.! You’re back!’ I said as I scrambled to my feet and dusted myself off. It must have been colder than I’d realised in that draughty hallway, especially with my clothes damp from the heavy rain, for the sudden movement made me shiver. 'I didn't hear you come up.'

'Evidently.' Raffles ran me over with a cynical and appraising eye. 'I suppose you'd better come in,' he said as he turned to unlock the door. 'Didn't Beckett tell you I was out?'

'Yes he did,' I said churlishly as I peeled off my wet coat and hung it up. ‘And he was quite off with me about it.’

'I see,’ he muttered.

‘And on that note--’ a sneeze interrupted my sentence.

‘Oh, look at the state of you, Bunny,’ Raffles frowned, shaking his head and sounding more irritated than compassionate. ‘Let’s get a hot coffee down before you develop pneumonia. What the devil were you thinking sitting out there like that?

'If you weren't constantly avoiding me, then I wouldn't have had to!'

'I don't see that you "have to" anyway.’

'Ah,' I said, seeing what he was getting at. 'Yes, I meant to tell you about that -- I'm afraid I’ve lost my key. Your key. The key to here. I've looked everywhere -- it's just vanished. That's why I didn't let myself in, if that's what you're getting at.'

'What?' Raffles replied, looking momentarily confused. 'Oh. The key, right. Well, never mind, I'm sure it will turn up. Sit down, and I’ll call down for some hot water. And throw this over you, for goodness' sake. You're shivering,’ and he tossed me a blanket.

As soon as he had he returned from calling down for water, I set upon him again. I hadn't sat in that hallway for God knows how long to be brushed off without a fight.

'Why have you been avoiding me?' I asked, getting straight to the point as he leaned against the mantelpiece and lit a cigarette.

'Why have _you_ been _hounding_ me?' he retorted. 'Don't you ever think I might be avoiding you for good reason?'

Used as I was to A. J.'s caprice, the abruptness with which he spoke nevertheless cut me to the quick.

'Thank you _very_ much for that, Raffles,' I snapped at him, throwing off the blanket he had given me and making to storm out, knowing even as I did that I was no doubt playing right into his hands. 'I didn't realise my company had become _so_ intolerable to you! I’d rather you’d just told me outright if you’re throwing me over, but I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out!’

‘What? Oh, shut up, you stupid rabbit. I didn't mean _because_ of _you_.’

‘It sounded like it!’

‘Bunny, it's for your benefit as much as mine -- _more_ than mine! And clearly I’m already demonstrating exactly why…’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I am in quite the blackest of moods lately, Bunny, and absolutely no good to anyone. If you weren't so wet and miserable looking I should have turned you on your tail at the doorstep; and if you have an ounce of sense in that head of yours you'll dash out of here as soon as you stop shivering and never look back -- and _not ask me about it_.'

‘But -- What’s wrong?' I pressed him, demonstrating unequivocally that I did _not_ have an ounce of sense in my head. 'Has something happened?'

'No,' he shrugged, moving to the window and gazing out of it at the storm. He leaned one arm up against the frame and shoved the other hand in his pocket. Against the grey light and the rain and the panes of glass he looked as though he were painted in watercolour. ‘That weather is getting worse. ...The sullen wind was soon awake, it tore the elm tops down for spite, and did it’s worse to vex the lake; I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria--’ 

'A. J., if nothing’s happened, then what’s the matter?' I interrupted. 'I'd expected to find you in better spirits than this, Raffles, I must say. After all, tomorrow is your--'

He held up a hand and grimaced. 'Don't -- say it, Bunny.'

'Say _what_?'

'Are you warmed up yet?’ he said, changing the subject very unsubtly. ‘Where is that blasted hot water?'

'Raffles,' I said, standing and making my way cautiously over to him, 'all of this isn't just because it is your birthday tomorrow, is it?'

' _J_ _ust_?' he bit back, incredulous. ' _Just,_ Bunny? I should think it reason enough!'

'This is why you have been avoiding me all week?'

'Not all week. I saw you at Lords the other day.'

'Yes, for all of five minutes, and then you disappeared! What did you do, climb out of the changing room windows?'

'No,' he said in a tone that implied I was an idiot to even suggest it. '...There's a back door.'

'Oh, I'm sorry; my mistake!’

Raffles glanced at me then, and I saw just enough of a glimmer in his eye to know that this might not be a complete lost cause. '...Apology accepted.'

‘But I don’t understand. You weren’t like this last year?’ I said. ‘Or the year before. Last year we went out on the river and then dined at Wilton’s and then-- Well, you certainly weren’t in a bad mood about your birthday _then._ What’s changed?’

‘Nothing. I’m not-- Look, you should go home, Bunny; I don’t want to talk about it -- and you shouldn’t want to talk to _me_! I’m not fit for human company!’

‘What about rabbit company?’

For a moment Raffles merely continued staring out of the window, refusing to acknowledge me; but then he scrubbed a weary hand across his face and turned to me wearing an expression half exasperated and half affectionate. ‘You are very difficult to say no to, do you know that? Fine. Stay, if you insist -- as long as you are a _quiet_ rabbit,’ he added with an edge to his tone; but with a certain softness in it, too. ‘I mean it, Bunny. I don’t want to talk about it. And you mustn’t get cross with me if I’m sullen or snappy; I’ve given you your due warning and you stay at your peril.’

‘Noted,’ I answered.

‘And you’re still set on sticking here? Even if I’m as bad tempered as a bear and as silent as a statue?’

‘I’ve nothing better to do,’ I shrugged.

‘You are the most _stubborn_ creature I’ve ever met,’ said he with the barest flicker of a smile in the corner of his mouth, dropping his arm from the window frame and reaching down to take my hand. ‘Good Lord, Bunny, your fingers are freezing! Get and light the fire -- no, don’t argue about it, I know it’s June, but it’s as cold as October in this blasted weather, and there’s been a lot of nasty sicknesses going about. I’ll go and fetch that hot water myself. The rent this place charges you think they’d hire more efficient staff...’

Within fifteen minutes we were both sitting on the sopha before a blazing fire, cups of coffee warming our hands. I was wrapped in about three blankets at Raffles’ insistence, and was beginning to feel a little _too_ warm, if anything. It was cosy, though, and even A. J. looked brighter than when I’d found him. 

‘What were you reading?’ he asked after we’d sat in a few minutes of silence.

I blinked out of my own contemplations and mustered up a smile. ‘ _The Odd Women_ ,’ I replied.

‘Is that Gissing’s latest?’

‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘It’s very good; I think you’d like it. It’s about-- well, it’s about a lot of things, and the story itself is nothing too remarkable, really -- but the _themes_ of the thing are very interesting. Feminism, and, misunderstanding, and-- and the stupidity of social expectation, and the impossibility to escape it for anyone but the very, very rich. You can borrow it when I’m finished, if you like.’

‘I might do,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for something new to read.’

‘I thought you were reading _The White Company_?’

‘Hm...’ he said, his tone eloquent enough to need no further elaboration. 

'It's _that_ good, then?’ I laughed. 

‘In the book’s defense, it may very well be me that’s the problem,’ he replied with a self-deprecating smirk which made my heart ache. ‘I doubt I’d even enjoy Dickens at the moment.’

I knew he had warned me against digging any further into his weird mood, but he was practically inviting it. And I hated a mystery; especially when it related to him. Even when I knew I probably wouldn't like what I found.

‘’I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong, A. J.’

‘Bunny, drop it.'

'I could _help_! ...In fact,’ I said, reaching into the large inner pocket of my jacket, only briefly getting tangled in my myriad blankets, ‘I have something for you that might. Or that will at least cheer you up. I hope.’ With that I pulled out a small package wrapped unassumingly in brown paper with a deep blue ribbon tied around it, and handed it to Raffles.

‘What’s this?’

‘A high court summons. What do you think it is!’

‘Bunny, I don’t want--’

‘Stop being an ass, Raffles, and just open the damned birthday present.’

He drummed his fingers on the package for a moment, and then relented with little grace. His dark expression soon lifted once he’d unwrapped the paper, though, and I was most gratified by the short, sharp exhalation which escaped his open mouth when he realised what I had given him.

‘It’s a first edition,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he replied, distantly. ‘I know. I...’ He trailed off as he began to carefully leaf through the pages of the book, holding each page with so delicate a touch that I found myself holding my breath just watching him. ‘Bunny, where did you find this? Do you know how _rare_ this is? Ollier barely published _any_ ; it did terribly when it was first released -- Can you believe that? John Keats’ first published collection of poetry, the recipient of scathing reviews and the most dismal sales imaginable! All I can say is that the general populace in 1817 must have had absolutely no taste whatsoever -- though I suppose the same might safely be said about people today--’ He stopped his enthusiastic, fast-talking babbling and silently stared at the book in his lap, a small smile playing on his lips, his brow drawn. 

Then he looked up at me. 

‘Bunny, _thank you!’_

‘I know it should have waited until tomorrow, really, but-- Well, we break enough rules; what’s a birthday present a few hours early?’

A shadow passed over his face once again at the mention of his birthday, but it was brief, and he soon brightened once more as he excitedly -- and carefully -- began leafing through the pages of the book, pointing things out to me and reading his favourite verses aloud. When he reached the back page, however, he paused. 

‘What’s this?’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling my cheeks grow warmer -- and they were warm already, between the fire, and the blankets, and the coffee, and the sight of A. J.’s sincere and unselfconscious smile. ‘I wanted to put a dedication in it, because that’s the done thing, isn’t it? But I didn’t want to damage the book, so I just slipped a note in the back. It’s nothing. It’s stupid. In fact, don’t even read it. Give it to me.‘

‘You wrote this?’ he said, ignoring me, his eyes glued to the ridiculous scrap of paper I was now deeply regretting giving him. ‘For me?’

‘It’s nothing. A silly little thing. I didn’t spend enough time on it. It was a-- a spur of the moment addition. It’s nothing. It’s stupid.’

‘Bunny, you wrote me a sonnet, that’s not nothing! I don’t think anyone’s ever written me a sonnet before.’

‘...Not that you know about,’ I muttered to myself, causing A. J. to arch an all too curious eyebrow which told me that that was an offhand comment he was absolutely putting a pin in for later investigation. But for the time being his primary attention was entirely taken up by the embarrassing composition in front of him. 

‘Let me read it aloud?’

‘Please don’t…’

‘Poems are meant to be read aloud, Bunny; they’re living things, they’re not supposed to be static. Let me? It’ll cheer me up. It’s my _birthday_ , Bunny.’

‘Not yet it’s not!’

And he looked at me then with that old sparkle in his clear, grey eyes and that old glitter in his mischievous smile, and I knew there was nothing I could deny him -- and well he knew it, too. And so against my half-hearted protestations and in the face of my grimacing, he read my feeble, nothingy little sonnet aloud, and the note which went along with it.

> _Two summers and a half, and three springs past,_
> 
> _I wander’d alone in darkness and debt,_
> 
> _Drowning in sorrow and fear and regret;_
> 
> _Knowing my die had been fatally cast._
> 
> _Two streets across and three floors up I passed,_
> 
> _Willing, and ready, gun loaded -- and yet_
> 
> _I swore I would place one last, final bet --_
> 
> _On friendship, known once, trusting it to last._
> 
> _Now each passing step sees me still more sure._
> 
> _Each passing week I find my hand improves._
> 
> _Each passing day I thank the heavens more_
> 
> _For ea_ _ch passing storm, every sky blue,_
> 
> _For summers! for_ _springs! for winters! And for_
> 
> _Better, for worse, ev'ry season of you._
> 
> _To my dearest A. J.,_
> 
> _You’ve been in this world for thirty years, and I’ve only known you for three of them -- two of those separated from the one by nearly a decade. Yet it feels I’ve known you all my life. Everything changed when I met you; the first time and the second. You're the greatest man I've ever met, and I can’t even begin to repay you for all you have given me -- but I hope this book, and this sonnet, and my promise to love you for as long as you will have me will at least make a start on it._
> 
> _Happy Thirtieth Birthday, Raffles; here’s to thirty more -- together!_
> 
> _Yours always,_
> 
> _Bunny._

For a moment after he finished reading, an uncomfortable silence hung in the air, maudlin and heavy and ringing with quickly scribbled poetry of which he deserved better.

'Bunny, do you--'

Whatever he was going to ask me, I never did find out, as all of a sudden a flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a peal of thunder of such Jovian proportions that it made the window panes rattle in their wooden frames. I yelped in surprise, and Raffles laughed at me, then sprang to the glass to look out at the storm as it worsened. 

‘Well,’ he said. ‘That decides the matter of whether you’re going home or not, Bunny. There’s nothing else for it. You’ll have to stay here all night. I can’t send you out in this with good conscience. And I'll have to keep you all day tomorrow, too, if it carries on like this. ...I rather hope it does.’

‘But is that how you _want_ to spend your thirtieth birthday, A. J.? I thought we could do something exciting, or special, or--’

‘It’s _exactly_ how I want to spend it, Bunny; I can think of nothing better. Up until an hour ago I had wanted to spend it alone, trying to forget about -- no, actually don't ask about it; it’ll only upset you, and I’m tired of being upset. I’ve done quite enough moping lately; it really is unacceptable. It's all about choices,' he added cryptically. 'Yours, and mine, and everyone else's. No point in getting melancholic about it. Luckily for me, you make staying unhappy rather difficult, rabbit; even if your methods do cause a bit of a headache for poor old Beckett.'

‘You shouldn’t encourage me, A. J.; I’ll become even more of a nuisance.’

‘You’re never a nuisance, Bunny, you’re the only thing that--’

He stopped.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. ...I love you. You do know that?’

‘I suppose I do.’

‘Even if--’ he frowned and looked at his hands, still clutching the book. ‘Look at Keats, Bunny. Keats was only twenty-five when he died; a life too short by most standards. Yet he made an impact on the world in twenty-five years such as others couldn’t hope to make in a hundred. It’s not the _quantity_ of time that matters, but the _quality._ It's not how much time you have, for longer or shorter, but what you do with it. What you choose to do with it.'

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because-- Because I don’t want to waste any of it. Who knows how long any of us have got? Everything ends, everything living will die; it's an inescapable inevitability. But until then we can make of it what we will. It may be inevitable, but it's not _now_ , Bunny. It's not _yet_.'

‘Why must you always make everything so dark? Birthdays are supposed to be _fun,_ Raffles…’ 

‘I don’t mean to get morbid,’ he laughed, a little sadly. ‘I just mean to say that -- Well, I never expected to get this far, truth be told; and I certainly never expected to feel glad if I did. But I _am_ here, to my perpetual surprise, and I _am_ glad of it -- which surprises me even more so. And I am because of _you_ , Bunny. Because _you_ showed up on my doorstep, a stubborn, foolish, beautiful little rabbit, and suddenly everything got a little brighter. Everything got _better_. You seem to make a habit out of doing that. And you write of repaying _me--_! You are a dense little idiot sometimes, Bunny; though not half so much of one as I am. I love you, rabbit. And I'm sorry for-- for leaving you to sit out in the cold.'

'That was my choice, Raffles.'

'I know.'

I didn’t want to think too hard on the implications of what he had said to me in that strange half-confession; if the quantity of our time together was in question, I didn’t want to know. But the _quality?_ That I could at least ensure was never in any doubt. And as the rain pelted the windows, and as the thunder rolled, I rugby tackled A. J. Raffles, blankets and all, and kissed him until we both saw stars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made A. J.'s birthday the 7th of June because that's Hornung's birthday! I think I've done the maths right for that to make him and Bunny 3 and a half years apart, but I have dyscalculia and time confuses me. I'd be a terrible Timelord. ...Or an amazing one?
> 
> Anyway, I hate this and no one should read it ever.


	11. 19: Dizzy

It was March.

On the whole, that March had been a grey and damp and dreary one, containing precious little to capture the imagination or to set the spirit alight with the love of life, or of adventure, or of anything very much at all. The young man -- or, young-ish, in any event -- who sat alone looking out of his window was himself feeling very much in the spirit of that March, too. He was a tall man, and athletic, if temporarily apathetic, and feeling quite as though he bore the weight of the world upon his young shoulders -- though it must be stated that he _was_ also inclined toward melancholy dramatics.

What he also was, at that particular moment, was decidedly hard up. The gold had all fled his coffers, and he didn’t have so much as a single diamond or sapphire left in his safe, Worse still, he had no friend in the world upon whom he might call for help -- not that he would, even if he had, but a sympathetic ear would have gone leagues in helping him out of his present hole. He had other ways and means and talents, of course, through which he might alleviate his situation, and had made use of them in the past, but the deadening lethargy of the month -- a month which should have been given to the living and phoenix-like rebirth of Spring instead of this dreary waking Purgatory -- had sunken into his very bones, and left him feeling disinclined to do very much of anything.

With little to look forward to and no friend who might reliably cheer him up, the young man decided he should take a walk. He had overheard some other young men talking of how a faire was coming to town, and for want of anything else to do, the young man thought that he may as well take a look at it, for the spectacle if nothing else.

That day, as every other had been all the month, and all the months before it (or so they seemed to him) was sullen. As he walked, the young man felt as though everything surrounding him was all washed out; as though the perpetual and pervasive drizzle, which didn’t even have the pluck to pull itself together and whip up into a real storm, had diluted the very colours of the trees and the streets and the sky and the people themselves, as though they had all been painted by an unskilled, unconfident watercolour artist who just kept on adding more water. The inspidity of the landscape made him grit his teeth and resent coming out at all. He wanted to set it all on fire, just to liven it up a bit.

But as the man rounded the corner at the end of the dismal, waterlogged path, a burst of colour suddenly and unexpectedly assaulted his vision. This shimmering cacophony of chromatism was accompanied by a tinny, metallic melody which should in any other context have been unpleasant to the ear, but here, woven in with all the colours of the paintbox, and the scents of sugar and lemonade, and the first blossoming flowers the young man had seen all year, was instead nothing less than intoxicating. 

He wandered through the faire, eyes wide and shining, taking in the stalls selling all manner of goods, the likes of which he had never before seen; here a sphere of glass, the colour of which shifted from a yellow that seemed to glow from within, to a blue so dark that it drew you in, dotted with points of light which flickered like stars; there, a glass chalice which glittered iridescent; everywhere the most chaotic and eclectic collection of curiosities imaginable. If only he’d had the money to buy any of them!

And then, amongst the curios and marvels, the young man’s eye fell upon a thing of such beauty, of such perfection that he could barely tear his eyes away from it. It was a tiny golden cup, barely the size of a wine glass offered by an ungenerous host, and decorated with the most intricate and perfectly painted enamel scenes that the man had ever seen; so tiny that the smallest details couldn’t have been painted with anything larger than a single horse hair. 

‘Excuse me?’ the young man said to the slightly older man inside the stall, who had the heaviest sideburns he had ever seen. ‘How much is this cup?’

The young man hadn’t the money for it, of course -- yet. But for an object as beautiful as this, he was sure he could find it, one way or another.

‘What?’ the man in the stall growled, barely looking up. ‘Ach, th’ disnae concern ye, city-bairn.’

‘...Quite,’ the young man said. ‘But this cup, how much do you want for it?’

‘Ah, haud yer wheest. What d’ye want fra’ me? Cannae ye see ah’m busy?’

‘This cup,’ the young man repeated for the third time. ‘I want to buy it. What can I give you for it?’

The stall keeper finally turned to look at the man, and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Naethin’,’ he said.

‘What? I can have it for _nothing_?’

‘That ye certainly can not!’ the stall keeper half bellowed. ‘You cannae have it at all. Put it doon!’

‘What?’

‘Ye got wool in yer ears?’

‘No, but-- But why is it out on display if it isn’t for sale?’

‘It is fer sale.’

‘But you just said it isn’t?’

‘I didnae,’ the stall keeper , ‘I said _you_ cannae buy it. Damned city-bairn.’

‘Why not? I’m good for the money, you know,’ the young man said, crossing his fingers behind his back. He would be by the time the cheque went through. 

‘Money?’ the stall keeper gruffed. ‘I dinnae want yer _money_. Get awae wi’ ye.’

‘Well, what, then?’

‘Naethin’ from the likes o’you! Now off wi’ ye! Off wi’ ye!’ 

And with that the unpleasant Scotsman rudely turned his back and began moving his mysterious and beautiful stock around with such a heavy hand that it made the artistically minded young man wince.

Now, this young man was many things, not all of them good, but he was not a _bad_ man. Not exactly. Not entirely. He was kind to cats when he met them, for example, and he helped out acquaintances when they were in need, and he was always -- _always --_ sporting. But he also didn’t take too kindly to being so peremptorily dismissed; and he _certainly_ didn’t like being told that he couldn’t do things. Without thinking twice about what he was doing, the young man slipped the cup into his pocket, offered a rueful apology to the back of the insensible stall keeper for wasting his time, and calmly drifted away from the stall, pausing now and again to inspect some trinket or another, or to smile at pretty girls as they passed. But inside his heart was racing.

He had stolen before, of course. He was no old stager, but neither was he a green boy at his first cricket match. But he had never yet stolen anything for any reason other than necessity; never simply for the want of the thing itself. Never for the _thrill_ of it. 

He had rather enjoyed it.

But still, he had no money, other than the few pennies jingling in his pocket, and he certainly wasn’t planning on selling the gold cup he’d just lifted -- that he intended to keep forever, his own secret treasure, for no one’s eyes but his own. And so he continued wandering around the strange, enticing, magical Faire, watching the people as they walked by, shrugging apologetically at the more enthusiastic stall keepers as they tried to convince him to part with the money he did not have.

As he walked, the young man suddenly heard a booming voice shouting out from the very far end of the Faire:

‘Last call for the Carousel! Only a penny a ride! Last call for the Carousel!’

Cocking his head and grinning a mischievous grin, the young man made his way over to the ride. Why not, he thought to himself? He had a penny to spare, and to hell with anyone who thought it strange for a grown man to ride a carousel by himself! He never was one to care for the opinions of others anyway; and so he paid his penny and sprang up onto the circular platform. 

The carousel was incredible -- he had never seen another quite like it. Deep reds, glittering gilt, shimmering silvers, mother-of-pearl inlays which reflected every colour of the rainbow as they caught the light… and that was the _least_ impresseve stuff! The ceiling -- if the top panels of a carousel were called a ceiling, the young man wasn’t sure -- were painted with scenes worthy of the Sistine Chapel! Well, it would have been, had Pope Sixtus IV requested images of a fairyland filled with unicorns and dragons and scantily clad nymphs and satyrs frolicking through fields instead of the Creation of Adam, anyway. And the animals -- the _animals_ ! Rather than the usual horses and chariots that most carousels tended to stable, _this_ carousel hosted a whole wild menagerie. Crocodiles and dolphins, basilisks and hedgehogs, the fantastical Noah’s Ark parade seemed endless. In fact the young man found himself wondering just how so many creatures could _fit_ onto the carousel, which hadn’t looked so big from the ground. Or, at least, he would have wondered this if he hadn’t been too busy _marvelling_.

Suddenly the man felt the floor begin to turn beneath his feet, and he hopped up onto the nearest animal to him; a leaping, golden rabbit. With a bright grin on his face and a lightness in his heart which, however fleeting, was a much needed respite from the numbing apathy which had been bleeding through him these past weeks and months, he watched the rest of the world begin to spin away in a blur. 

And it kept spinning. And it kept blurring. Faster, and faster, and faster, until suddenly the man felt himself clinging to the pole before him for dear life as the carousel seemed to reach speeds that he’d never even experienced on a train. Every inch of him was crying out to shut his eyes, but he doggedly kept them open, even as they stung and streamed against the whipping wind. And then came a flash of blinding and bright and white light, and a sound like an entire orchestra quitting their jobs midway through a performance. And then the carousel stopped. 

‘Last stop!’ the carousel master called, and he prodded the stunned young man with a glossy black cane. ‘Last stop, boy,’ he said again.

The young man swung himself off of the rabbit and took a tentative step forward, immediately regretting it as he nearly keeled over.

‘Are you sure it’s stopped?’ he groaned, pressing his hand to his forehead as the world continued to tilt and whirl in front of him. ‘Everything is still spinning.’

‘First time?’ the carousel master laughed. ‘Yes, it does make you a bit dizzy. You’ll get used to it. Walk it off, my boy, walk it off,’ he said kindly, before adding in a somewhat more pointed tone, _‘somewhere else_.’ 

Stumbling off of the fairground ride, blinking against the bright sunlight, the young man shook his head in attempt to clear it, wondering how that carousel could possibly be legal. Or _possible,_ for that matter, though he supposed that modern technology was making leaps and bounds every day. Perhaps this was how all carousels would be in the future. As his head began to clear a little, the man began to make his way through the rapidly dissipating crowds. Obviously the Faire was over; though he didn’t quite understand how the stalls had packed up and disappeared so quickly. His head was swimming, and his legs still wobbly, and he mumbled an apology as he stood on a woman’s tail as she passed by him. At least the weather had improved, he thought. It was quite warm now, and decidedly sunny. He was sure it had been growing dark when he’d gotten on that carousel, but perhaps it had just been cloudy, or--

Wait, he thought to himself, stopping in his tracks. Stepped on that woman’s _what_?

The young man snapped to his senses and spun around. This was _not_ the city. This was-- he didn’t know _where_ this was. The grass was greener than any grass he had seen in his life, the sky more blue, the flowers more in bloom -- and how many flowers there were--! And of every shade and species he knew, and more beside. No, this was _definitely_ not his city. 

He turned and chased after the woman whose… tail… he had trodden on. 

‘Excuse me! Miss? Miss?’ he shouted after her. ‘Please, I just need to ask you something!’

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look back. She just hurried away into the mists at the far end of the field, and was gone.

‘Right,’ the man said to himself, running a hand through his curly black hair and glancing about for any clue as to his whereabouts and how he came to be there. He was neither the type of man to panic, nor to deny the evidence of his own two eyes, but under these extenuating circumstances he thought he might make a go of it. Somehow he was not where he was before. He was not _anywhere_ he had been before. And he was completely, entirely, utterly alone.

‘Psst!’

The young man spun on his heels, and spun again, and again until he felt like a spinning top. 

‘Who’s there?’ he hissed, wondering whether it might be a ghost. Why not, after all? Things were weird enough already.

‘Over here!’ the voice said. ‘No, not up there -- look _down_.’

The man lowered his gaze and saw, a few yards in front of him, a small rabbit sitting up in the emerald grass, ears pricked and whiskers twitching. It’s fur was the colour of Russian gold, and its eyes were bright and shining and the colour of sunlight as it filtered through late summer leaves. 

‘Um,’ the man said to the rabbit, because he might as well. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello,’ the rabbit said, hopping toward him. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be able to hear me. Not everyone can. I’d hoped, when I saw you getting off the carousel, but--’ the rabbit suddenly froze mid hop, its ears twitching to face backwards. 

‘Hoped what?’ 

‘Quiet,’ the rabbit whispered, a tone in its voice as urgent as only talking rabbits can be urgent. ‘Don’t move. Don’t move, and they might not see us.’

‘Who?’

‘For god’s sake, _be quiet!_ ’ the rabbit repeated with a hiss. 

And then in the near distance, emerging from the heavy mists which seemed to border every edge of the field, the young man saw four figures in pink hunting jackets striding alongside the most vicious looking hounds he had ever seen. Granted, being a dedicated metropolitan, the man had not seen _many_ hounds in his life, but still, he was certain that even had he been a dedicated fox-botherer from the cradle he would never have seen dogs quite like _that_. One of them stuck a big black nose in the air and sniffed, revealing yellowing teeth as it drew back its lips in a snarl. The young man heard the little golden rabbit whimper, and felt a sudden and quite unexpected protective compulsion surge through him. But thankfully before he could act on that foolish and irrational impulse, one of the pink-jacketed figures barked a command and the dog ran to heel. In moments the ominous group disappeared back into the mists once more.

‘Oh, thank _God_ ,’ the rabbit exhaled, letting its ears flop down to hang against its whiskered cheeks. ‘Nasty buggers, that lot,’ it said, catching its breath. ‘I _hate_ them! I swear, if I weren’t a rabbit, I’d--’

‘Who are they?’ asked the young man. He had about a thousand questions to ask, not least among them being how and why he was talking to a _rabbit_ , but this was the one that seemed the most immediately pressing. ‘Who are they, and where did they go, and are they coming back?’

‘They’re gone -- for now,’ said the rabbit. ‘They went through the zephyr. The zephyr is-- Oh, it’s too complicated to explain right now. We really need to get out of here before it gets dark. Follow me.’

‘Now wait just a minute,’ the young man said, growing quite impatient with the whole thing. ‘Why should I follow you? I don’t know you from any other rabbit. I don’t even know where I _am_.’

‘You don’t know?’ the rabbit asked, tilting its soft little head.

‘Evidently not!’

‘But-- But how can you get here and _not know_?’

‘You tell me.’

‘But-- But you have to have a key to get here! You _can’t_ get here without a key; and you can’t get back without one, either. Didn’t you buy one at the Faire?’

‘I didn’t buy anything,’ the man replied to the rabbit. ‘I wanted to, but I’m deucedly hard up at the moment. Couldn’t afford anything.’

‘But-- that’s _impossible_!’

‘I’m talking to a rabbit,’ the man said.

‘Are you sure you’ve nothing from the Faire?’ the rabbit persisted, sitting up on its back legs. ‘Anything at all?’

‘Nothing,’ the man lied.

‘ _Damn it_!’ the rabbit cursed with a stamp of a fat paw.

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Yes! No. Maybe. That is-- I was hoping you might. Have a key. Have a-- That you might-- That maybe if we could find the carousel again, _you_ might be able to--’ the rabbit stopped and gave a sad, weary sigh. ‘I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.’ 

‘For what?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ the rabbit said with a shake of its head. ‘Not right now. Right now we really do need to get out of here. I _really_ don’t want to be here after dark,’ it said with a shudder. ‘And neither do you. Look, I know you’ve no reason to, but please trust me. I can help.’ The rabbit paused and twitched its whiskers. ‘Or, I can help a bit, sort of. Or-- Well, I can at least show you to somewhere safe until morning. ...Please?’

The young man weighed up his options. He glanced around at the now completely empty field, and up at the rapidly setting sun, and back down at the imploring face of the golden rabbit. The man didn’t know _why_ the rabbit seemed to care what happened to him, but the little thing evidently did. And for some reason the young man found that he _did_ trust the rabbit. That was almost the maddest thing of all; for the young man made it a rule to never trust anyone. Perhaps rabbits didn’t count.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll follow you. But you’d better not take me to a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party,’ he added flippantly. ‘I’m really not in the mood for socialising.’

To his surprise, the little rabbit chuckled. ‘Come on,’ it said, beckoning with a fluffy paw. ‘No Mad Hatters, I promise.’ 

And with that, the little golden rabbit hopped off through the grass and towards the shifting, dense mists at one corner of the strange, beautiful meadow. The man shook his curly head, wondering at his own foolishness as much as the rest of it, and

* * *

I turned the page eagerly, only to find the other side completely blank, and I cursed beneath my breath. I checked the desk, and the floor beneath the desk, and all the drawers of the desk, and even pulled the damned thing out to check behind it, but found nothing. That was the last sheet of paper.

Raffles chose that most opportune moment to return from his evening constitutional. He raised his eyebrows at me coolly as I leapt to my feet and raced over to him, waving the infuriatingly unfinished manuscript in his face.

‘Raffles! Thank God you’re back!’

‘Everything all right?’

‘No!’ I cried, hopping on my feet. ‘Where’s the _end_?’

‘The end of what, rabbit?’

‘Of this!’

His eyes, sparkling with amusement, finally moved from my face to the page I had been holding under his nose. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Where did you find that?’

‘You wrote it, didn’t you? You must have; either that or our landlady is weirder than she seems.’

‘Yes,’ Raffles chuckled, ‘I wrote it. I was bored, and you’re always scribbling away; I thought I’d join you. It wasn’t supposed to be _read_ by anyone though, Bunny… Do you make a habit of reading other people’s private things?’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ I said, ‘but once I started I couldn’t stop. Anyway, I _have_ read it now, and I dearly want to read the rest. Can I have it? Please?’

‘What rest?’

I stopped and gave him a _look_. ‘You don’t mean that’s all you’ve written?’

‘Yes,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m surprised I even wrote that much, but it really was a devilishly dull afternoon. It was that day you went out into the city to see your publisher, and it was raining, and-- Anyway,’ he said with a shake of his curly head, ‘that’s the lot of it. My hand was aching something wicked by that point, too -- not to speak of my head! I really don’t know how you keep it up for so many hours, Bunny; I have a newfound respect for my writing rabbit!’

‘But-- But Raffles,’ I said, for once not at all interested in his compliments. ‘I need to know what happens!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘With the-- with the carousel, and the rabbit, and the hunters, and the-- A. J. you _know_ how I hate mysteries!’

Raffles looked at me then with a curious expression, and if I didn’t know him better I’d say he looked bashful. ‘You _enjoyed_ it?’

‘Of course I did!’ I said with enthusiasm. ‘I didn’t know you could write, A.J.; you always insisted that you can’t!’

‘And that’s quite true,’ he laughed. ‘You’re the writer in this household, not me. It’s just a bit of nonsense, Bunny, nothing more. You make up the rest of it, if you want. I’m sure you’ll do a much better job of it than I would.’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It’s your story. You _have_ to finish it. Please?’

‘...You really want me to?’

‘I do. I really, truly do.’

Raffles turned to hang up his coat, expression thoughtful. Then he glanced down at my imploring face as I gazed back up at him, shamelessly and silently pleading with all my might in just the way I knew he found particularly hard to resist, and he sighed. 

‘ _Maybe_ ,’ he said. ‘But only if I’ve nothing better to do...’

‘Thank you,’ I said, leaning up on my tiptoes and brushing a kiss against his cold cheek, habitually pushing my fingers into his silver curls, and smiling up into the face I knew so well and loved so very, very much. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  
  



	12. 21: Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Part II of the "Whatever The Hell This Is" story begun in "19: Dizzy". 
> 
> Look. Look, I just like writing weird nonsense, all right? So sue me.
> 
> Completely self-indulgent. #sorrynotsorry

Two weeks had passed since I had found and read the story penned by no hand other than that of my own dear old Raffles, and I was beginning to despair of him ever writing any more. I knew well enough that if I pressed him outright he would become more disinclined to do it -- and I knew too well myself how external pressure and expectation can so easily crush out the shoots of creativity long before they ever come to bloom; so I was careful not to press him too hard. And yet I couldn’t help but hint at him; I couldn’t help but sweeten him up with wide-eyed looks, and kisses to the back of his neck, and every other thing I could think of, pairing my careful coaxing with some word or two about writing, or some vague reference to his charming fairytale, in the hopes that perhaps he might get the message and _write me the damned story_. 

But alas, I thought to myself, I must have been too delicate about it, for he hadn’t so much as breathed a word about it since the evening I’d first read it. I’d just about given up on him ever finishing his story, when one evening after I had kissed him goodnight and taken myself off to my own bed, I found laying upon the pillow a sheaf of papers bound with a pink ribbon. I knew what it was before I’d even picked it up, and bit my lip, my rabbit heart racing with a mix of excited anticipation and giddy infatuation at the thought that A.J. had this time written it _for me_. 

I took a breath and forced myself to get into my pyjamas before even picking the thing up. Once I had it in my hands I wanted _no_ distractions. When I was changed and ready for bed, I slipped beneath the cool sheets and, at last, picked up the manuscript marked with the neat, if slightly erratic, cursive that was so uniquely Raffles’.

And with the biggest smile on my face I read the short note which served as dedication:

> _You really aren’t subtle, old chap. I have to say, I’m getting a bit worried about the state of your brain, if this is what passes for light entertainment; you do like nonsense, rabbit. And don’t blame me if this is awful -- I warned you!_

‘I love you too, A.J.’, I murmured to myself -- to him! --as I picked up the first page proper and began to read.

* * *

...And with that, the little golden rabbit hopped off through the grass and towards the shifting, dense mists at one corner of the strange, beautiful meadow. The man shook his curly head, wondering at his own foolishness as much as the rest of it, and followed the bobbing white tail to where he knew not. He had expected the rabbit to lead him towards those ominous mists which bounded the field -- they were where the few other people (people?) he had seen here had disappeared off to, after all, and on top of that fact, he could simply see nowhere else for them to go. But instead the rabbit led them to a tiny patch of thorny and tangled hedgerow, one of the few spots not shielded by the thick fog. He couldn’t see beyond it; the hedge was too tall to see over, and too dense to see through.

‘Home sweet home’ the rabbit muttered. ‘Sorry it’s not much, but--’

‘This is a hedge.’

‘No; there’s a door!’

‘That’s not a door,’ the young man said, trying very hard not to sound as stressed as he was beginning to feel. The sun was setting the sky alight as it sunk beyond the mists. ‘That’s a… hole.’

‘Burrow, thank you very much,’ the rabbit replied a little testiliy. ‘But are you sure that’s all you see? A burrow? Nothing more?’

‘No. I also see thorns, and dead leaves, and what looks like the skeleton of a shrew.’

‘ _Damn it_.’

‘Do all rabbits swear like sailors here, or is that uniquely you?’

The little rabbit twitched its whiskers anxiously. ‘Close your eyes.’

‘I don’t think so,’ the young man said, folding his arms.

‘ _Please_?’ the rabbit said, glancing at the sky and then glancing back up at the man with wide, imploring eyes. ‘I don’t have _time_ \-- _we_ don’t have time! Just do it, please? Close your eyes -- _trust me_. I’m trusting _you!_ You don’t know the risk I’m running showing you where I live--! _Damn it_ we are _running_ out of _time_ \--! Please just do it?’ And the rabbit laid a soft, warm, pleading paw on the man’s shin.

The young man clicked his tongue against his teeth. One half of him was yelling at the other for being so easily swayed by just the smallest demonstration of kindness and trust from another creature, whilst the other half was yelling at him for being so inveterately suspicious. But though he knew how foolish and naive and downright _desperate_ it was to read any true empathy or offer of friendship into the rabbit’s actions, he found he couldn’t quite help but do it anyway. He was desperately lonely, and, on top of that, apparently trapped within some kind of nonsensical _nightmare_. If there was ever a time he needed a friend, it was then. And the young man did _know_ the risk he would be taking; he knew the vulnerable position he would be putting himself in; he knew the ways of the world, and he knew the hearts of men -- but, he thought, did he know the hearts of rabbits? 

If he had been left to battle out head with heart alone the young man might have taken a lot longer to decide what to do; but Time weighed in on the argument, along with the image of those hunters and their dogs, and the creeping sensation down the back of his neck which would have told him that being outside in this place was a _bad idea_ even if the rabbit had not -- and these things won the toss. 

‘If you try _anything_ , rabbit--’

‘I won’t! What could I do, anyway?’

‘I don’t know. You can talk. Who knows what else you can do?’

‘Not much, I can assure you…’

‘Fine,’ the young man said grimly. ‘I’ll do it.’

Thank you,’ the rabbit said with a sigh of palpable relief. ‘And you need to keep them closed until I say otherwise. That’s very important; things won’t go… _well_ … if you don’t . But it will be fine. I'm... I'm mostly sure it will be fine. And you won’t have to keep them closed for _long_ , and--’

‘I thought you said we were in a hurry?’ the young man said, eyes already shut.

‘Oh yes. Sorry. Okay -- step forwards about five times. Or six. Make it six, just to be safe.’

‘What?’ the man frowned, every last bit of him urging his eyes to open. ‘I’ll walk into the hedge!’ 

‘No, you won’t. Why would I make you walk into the hedge?’

‘Perhaps you have a poor sense of humor,’ the man said, dryly.

‘That’s probably true,’ the rabbit said with an unexpected chuckle, before the anxious tone took over once more. ‘Look, we don’t have time for this! Walk forwards, six steps. Come on!’

Gritting his teeth and steeling himself, the young man took a breath and did as the rabbit bid him. A thrill went through him as he did so, and he found that it was not entirely unpleasant. He had always had an affinity with danger and adventure, always enjoyed the rush which accompanied taking risks. It was like taking a concentrated dose of pure _life_. Usually this took the form of committing minor crimes, or scaling buildings -- or both at the same time, on occasion -- rather than in placing his trust in the hands, or rather the paws of a rabbit he barely knew, but variety, as they say, was the spice of life. If that were so, the young man thought as he took the first step forward, he was about to eat a mouthful of black pepper.

As he took his six steps forwards, the young man found himself surprised not to meet with a facefull of bramble -- or more accurately he found himself surprised that he was _not_ surprised when he did not meet with a face full of bramble. He was surprised that he truly hadn’t doubted the rabbit for a moment. And that surprise made him doubt himself.

‘All right,’ the rabbit said once the six steps were up. ‘You can open them now, it’s safe.’

The young man hadn’t had any particular expectations as to what sight might greet him when he opened his eyes, but had he been pressed for an answer, the cosy little kitchen complete with a fireplace, stovetop, and table would _not_ have been in his top five replies. The place was small -- small, at least, by usual human standards, but far too big for a rabbit -- and furnished simply yet snugly, much in the style one might expect of a gamekeepers lodge or a somewhat impoverished vicarage. But more than that, more than its mere physical attributes, the place radiated such a sense of safety and comfort that, insane as all of this was, the young man nevertheless felt some tension drop out of his aching shoulders as he breathed an involuntary sigh of relief. Ironically -- or perhaps not -- this momentary sense of security only served to put the man more _on_ his guard. He wasn’t used to trusting people, rabbits or otherwise. Feeling at ease made him feel uneasy.

‘Sorry, I know it’s not much,’ the little rabbit said self-consciously, glancing around at the quaint and old-fashioned kitchen, breaking into the man’s thoughts. ‘But it’s better than being out _there_ , at least. I’ll-- I’ll light the fire. That’ll brighten the place up a little. Sit down, please. ...If you want to. You don’t have to.’ The rabbit hesitated then, as though unsure whether it needed or wanted to say anything else; evidently it decided against it, as instead of speaking further it busied itself in setting up the fireplace. 

Rather than taking a seat as instructed, the young man wandered around the kitchen, his eyes taking in everything, peering into everything, making a mental note of everything there was to note. That was probably breaching every social etiquette there was, he thought, but then, once you’d followed a rabbit through a hedge with your eyes closed to avoid being murdered -- or whatever it was that pink-coated hunters and monstrous hounds did if they caught you, and he couldn’t imagine it was pleasant -- social niceties probably didn’t mean as much. Anyway, he wanted to gather as much information about his present situation as possible, and he wasn’t about to let the risk of mere social offense stand in the way of that. Preparation, preparation, preparation -- that was the key to almost every success. The young man wasn’t quite sure what “success” would mean in this scenario, but for the moment “not becoming dead” was quite high on the list. “Getting out of here” was another; and “finding out where the hell _here_ was”, another still. 

But he was also simply curious. Curious and growing increasingly suspicious.

‘I don’t have a spare bed, I’m afraid,’ said the rabbit, ‘but I have a very comfortable sopha you can sleep on, if you want to sleep. Which I’m sure you will; I can’t imagine that you wouldn’t want to sleep. Not that you have to, of course, I suppose some people don’t need so much sleep, but…’ The rabbit trailed off, watching the young man as he looked around the kitchen. And then it visibly flinched as the man turned suddenly and pinned the rabbit with a piercing grey eye. 

‘Why are you helping me?’ the man asked, sharply.

‘What?’ the rabbit replied, whiskers twitching. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You heard me,’ the man said, taking a step closer. ‘Why did you help me? What’s in it for you? What do you want from me?’

‘Nothing!’

‘Don’t lie to me, rabbit.’

The rabbit pressed a paw to its forehead and shook its head. ‘Nothing -- really! I did, but nothing that would-- That is, at first I did wonder whether-- But you don’t even know how you _got_ here, let alone--’ It sighed, stumbling over its unfinished sentences in its distress. ‘You can’t help me, and I don’t want anything from you. Don’t worry.’

‘Help you with what?’ the man asked, more gently.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ the rabbit said with a sad shake of its head, and the poor thing looked so sad that it extinguished the spark of anxious anger which had been kindling in the man’s chest quite completely. He pulled out a chair from beneath the table and sat down across from the rabbit, who continued talking in a soft voice. ‘I half-expected it, anyway. No one can help me. I can’t even help myself.’

‘And yet you didn’t simply leave me there,’ the man murmured, almost more to himself than to the rabbit.’

‘Well, I couldn’t just leave you out there all alone, could I?’

‘You could have.’

The rabbit shook his soft, golden head. ‘All manner of things come out in the dark. The hunters and the hounds are bad enough; but there are worse things than them.’

‘How do you know I’m not a worse thing?’ the man said, tilting his curly black head, speaking in a voice deliberately light and careless to counterbalance the potentially, if unintentionally, threatening bent of his words; but still the rabbit’s ears flickered backwards and his eyes widened.

‘I-- I suppose I don’t know that.’

‘And yet you took me into your house anyway,’ the man said, ponderously. ‘I’m very glad you did,’ he added with a smile, ‘but it does seem a little foolish of you. I could be anyone.’

‘That follows,’ the rabbit said, looking at his paws on the table, disarmingly vulnerable. ‘I _am_ a fool. The biggest fool that ever there was.’ 

‘Well, if it makes you feel any better, I haven’t behaved much more wisely. I’m really not in the habit of following strangers home, especially not when I have to get there by walking blindfold through hedges -- I’m as much of a fool as you are, my new rabbit friend. We can be foolish together, how about that?’

The rabbit glanced up, then, his bright eyes searching, his nervous ears flickering, a small smile peeking out from behind his caution. ‘Together?’

‘For tonight, at least,’ the man replied. ‘Tomorrow I fully intend on figuring out how to get back home.’

‘Home?’ the rabbit said, his visible anxiety being replaced with evident interest. ‘Back to The Beneath, you mean?’

‘The what?’

‘The-- Back to where you came from? Where you got on the carousel? Back to the... city?’

‘Well, yes,’ the man said. ‘I can’t very well stay here, can I? Of course I’m going to go back!’

The rabbit distractedly pulled a little chunk of bread from the loaf on the table and began breaking it up into crumbs. ‘It’s not all so easy as just _going back_ ,’ it said. ‘If were so easy, everyone would do it.’

‘Well, I got here easily enough, didn’t I? If you can go through a door one way, it follows you can go through it the other, too. I’ll just -- do that,’ he shrugged.

‘You need a key.’

‘But I don’t have a key _now_ , and I got here. Perhaps I don’t need a key to get back, either. I suppose I’ll find out. But one way or another,’ he added with a little more bite, ‘I _am_ getting back. It’s cricket season soon, for one thing.’

The little rabbit brightened at hearing that. ‘Is it, really? How’s the England team been doing? Is W.G. Grace still playing?’

The man’s expression, which had grown quite serious as he dwelt upon his less-than-ideal present state, lifted, and his unscrupulous mouth quirked into an intrigued and curious grin. 

‘...Yes, or, as well as we always do, to the first question; and yes, but not on top form, to the second. Bad knee injury, poor chap. Still going, though. I’ve played with him a few times.’ 

‘You haven’t!’ the rabbit said excitedly. ‘You’ve played with W.G. Grace? You -- You play, then? Are you good? Well, you must be if you’ve played with W.G. Grace!’

‘I’ve played for England a few times, here -- or, rather, back home -- and over in Australia. I’m not bad.’

‘Well, that’s -- that’s brilliant!’ the rabbit chirped back, both paws pressed flat against the table as it leaned forwards in its enthusiasm. ‘I used to follow all the first class teams when I was younger; never any good at playing myself, but I was keen as mustard as a fan! And now I’m sitting with a real first-class cricketer in my kitchen! That’s -- _phew_!’

‘You _were_ keen on it, you said?’ the man asked, shrewdly. ‘Not anymore?’

‘Oh, well,’ the rabbit answered, sobering up a little, ‘I suppose I am, but there’s nothing I can do about it. They don’t play cricket, here.’

‘No cricket! By Jove, I’m even more determined to get back home, now.’ The man ran a perceptive eye over the golden-haired little creature. ‘I take it that means you’ve been to -- what did you call it? “The Beneath”, then? If there’s no cricket _here_ , wherever here is, but you know about it -- and know enough about it to be quite the fan?’

‘Ah,’ the rabbit said, nibbling at its lip with a pair of large front teeth. ‘Well-- yes. I have.’

‘Then you _do_ know how I can get back,’ the man said, a touch more sharply than he meant to. He leant back in his chair and reached into his inner pocket for a packet of cigarettes. ‘You must if you’ve done it yourself, before. ...Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘I don’t!’ the rabbit cried.

‘Mind if I smoke, or know how to get back?’

‘Know how to get back! If only I did--! ...Well, that is, I don’t mind if you smoke, either, but--’ the rabbit stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Are those Sullivan’s?’

The man nodded, a glitter in his grey eyes. ‘Want one?’

‘Do I!’ the rabbit said endearingly, before checking itself. ‘...But you should probably save them. Decent cigarettes are another thing we don’t get here. Not very often, anyway.’

‘No cricket, no cigarettes -- next thing you’ll be telling me you don’t have whiskey, either!’

‘Oh, we have _that_ ,’ the rabbit grinned. ‘Can I -- offer you a glass?’

‘A tumbler of whiskey in exchange for a Sullivan? Sounds like a fair deal to me,’ the man grinned. ‘I say, but this isn’t a Proserpine type deal, is it? Drink six sips of whiskey and I have to stay here for six months of the year, something like that?’

‘No,’ the rabbit laughed over its shoulder as it went for two glasses. ‘Or, at least, not as far as I know, and I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t. Although didn’t she only have to stay because Pluto wanted to marry her? I suppose if he hadn’t, perhaps she could have eaten all the pomegranates she wanted and go off home again at her leisure.’

‘You have quite the classical education,’ the man replied. ‘For a rabbit.’

‘I’m not very good at Latin declension tables, or maths, but give me mythology, literature, and poetry, and I’ll be a happy man -- or, well, rabbit.’

The rabbit handed the man a glass of golden-coloured whiskey, and the man in turn handed the rabbit a cigarette. He was quite amused to see a rabbit lighting up a smoke, but he made sure to keep it from showing on his face. He didn’t want to offend the dear little thing.

‘Good?’ he smiled as the rabbit took a deep drag of the Sullivan.

‘Good isn’t the _word_ ,’ the rabbit sighed, happily. ‘I haven’t had one of these in -- I don’t even know how long. Thank you.’

‘See; there was a reason for you rescuing me after all. This is good, too,’ the young man said, nodding at the whiskey. ‘Very good, in fact. Better than Islay.’

‘It’s my best bottle,’ the rabbit admitted. ‘Don’t have company often; this is as good an excuse as any to crack it out.’

‘Glad to be of use,’ the man laughed. 

‘Well,’ the little rabbit said, clearing its throat awkwardly after a few moments of silence had fallen over the room. ‘Is there-- I imagine you have a lot of questions. I don’t want to-- That is to say, I--’ It sighed. ‘What I mean is that if there is anything I can tell you that you want to know, I will. I don’t know much, but… Well. Ask what you like, and if I can answer, I’ll answer.’

The young man crossed his legs and puffed at his cigarette, exhaling a neat blue ring of smoke which the rabbit watched intently as it drifted its way up to the ceiling of the burrow.

‘First of all, I suppose I ought to ask where it is that I _am_.’

‘That much I _can_ tell you, at least,’ the rabbit replied. ‘You’re in the-- well, in _The Beneath_ it’s known as _The Above_ , and that’s what most of us here call it too; but some folks, the more… well, _fae_ folk, I suppose, call it the Síleáil. That’s where you are. Where we are.’

‘That’s a _name_ , certainly, but it doesn’t _tell_ me much. You mentioned fae folk; I gather this is-- some sort of fairy realm, then? Like where _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_ would head back to after a long day of enchanting knights?’

‘Not quite,’ said the rabbit, furrowing its brow. ‘I always got the impression she could move between worlds a lot more easily than a person might come between here and there. It’s more like --’ the rabbit stopped and thought for a moment. ‘Do you know _The Man Who Dreamed of Fairyland_ , by Yeats?’ the rabbit asked.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s sort of like that.’

‘But the chap in that _can’t_ dream of fairyland, can he? He can’t get there; I thought that was the point.’

‘It is.’

‘Hm.

‘Well, anyway, it’s like that. Except for here, add a lot of monsters to Yeats’ fairyland. Fairyland as written by Bram Stoker. And not without a few of its own _belles dames sans merci,_ too.’

‘I get the picture,’ the man replied, and he tapped some ash from his cigarette into a beautiful rainbow-shimmering dish that the rabbit nudged toward him for the purpose. ‘That carousel, then -- I take it that was the… doorway? to this world?’

‘One of them,’ the rabbit nodded. ‘I don’t know how many more there are. But I do know that getting through them is very difficult, especially if you’re not--’

‘What?’

‘In with the right people,’ the rabbit muttered, darkly. ‘Some people, or, not people, I suppose, not _human_ people-- though some human people-- or--’ It huffed angrily. ‘I don’t know. I know some people come and go, but I don’t know them, and I don’t know how, and they’re all-- I don’t know. I’m not the person-- rabbit to ask. I’m _useless_.’

By the time the rabbit glanced back up, expression defiant, the young man had lowered his eyebrows and masked the surprised, pitying expression which had fallen across his own face upon hearing the rabbit’s agitated, self-critical words. Very much against his will, he was finding himself more endeared to the creature with every passing moment.

‘It’s all right,’ the man said. ‘You know more about it than I do.’

‘Yes, but I’ve been here for--’ The rabbit shook its head. ‘What else can I tell you?’

‘Well,’ the man said, taking a sip of his whiskey, ‘I’m sitting in your kitchen, drinking your whiskey, and soon to sleep on your sopha, and I’ve just this moment realised I don’t even know your name. That seems as pressing a question as any.’

The man had asked the question only in part because he truly wanted to know -- though he _did_ want to know -- and mostly because he had hoped that asking a more neutral, friendly question might help to put the nervous little creature more at ease. The last thing the young man had wanted to do was aggravate the poor thing; it had been so kind to him, after all, the least he could do was try to return the favour. Unfortunately, he had landed upon possibly the worst question he could have asked.

The rabbit froze. For a moment the man wondered whether time itself had begun to break down -- because, after everything else, why not that, too? -- the rabbit was that still, but the continued ticking of the clock on the mantel and the crackling and flickering of the fire in the hearth showed that the only thing that had stopped was the rabbit. 

Then it blinked, and swallowed, and began crumbling up pieces of bread again. ‘I don’t have a name,’ the rabbit said.

‘You don’t? Well, not a human name, perhaps, but what do your people call you?’

‘I don’t _have_ any people.’

‘Ah. But, what should _I_ call you?’

The rabbit shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

‘I’m not keen on “Nothing”,’ the man said, forcing a relaxed smile onto his lips. ‘It’s a bit too close to “Nobody”. Makes me wonder if you’re about to jab my eye out with a big pointy stick.’ He felt gratified when that dragged a small chuckle from the rabbit, as he’d hoped it would. ‘No, that won’t do at all. Tell you what, I’ll call you-- I’ll call you Bunny.’

The rabbit, Bunny, looked up then, finally meeting the man’s blue-grey eyes with his own golden-green ones. ‘You’re-- giving me a name?’

‘Well, a nickname, I suppose. If you don’t object?’

‘No! I-- I don’t object. I don’t object at all. Bunny,’ Bunny said, sounding out the name, rolling the taste of it across its tongue. ‘Bunny. My name is -- Bunny.’

‘Hello, Bunny,’ the young man said, extending his hand across the table. ‘Pleased to meet you!’

The rabbit cautiously placed its soft little paw in the man’s hand, his sombre little face breaking into a sunlit smile as he did so. ‘Thank you,’ Bunny said. ‘Very pleased to meet you, too!’

‘Ah! And I haven’t even introduced myself!’ the young man said. ‘My name is--’

‘Stop!’ Bunny interrupted, its claws suddenly digging into the tender skin of the man’s hand and making him flinch back. 

‘What?!’

‘Names have power here,’ the rabbit said, suddenly very, very serious. ‘A _lot_ of power. You should never speak you name out loud. And don’t go _telling_ people-- It’s dangerous.’

‘Right,’ the man said, frowning, wondering whether that was why the rabbit had refused to give its own name to him. He didn’t blame it for not trusting him, but he did feel more than a little foolish for so easily trusting _it_ . And for being so presumptuous as to _give_ it a name. He hoped that didn’t mean the rabbit had some sort of hold over him now. This was all madness. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said, only half sarcastically.

‘That’s not why I didn’t give you my name,’ the rabbit added, hastily, unexpectedly. Everything this rabbit did seemed to catch the man off guard. ‘I really don’t have one, I swear.’

‘You don’t have to swear; it makes no difference to me.’

‘No, but-- I don’t want you to think that I lied to you. I didn’t.’

‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me.’

‘I know I don’t! But…’ The rabbit, Bunny, whatever it was called, looked down at the mess of crumbs it had scattered on the table, and began tracing an absent-minded pattern in them. ‘I did have a name, once,’ it said, quietly. ‘But I lost it.’

Unsure whether he wanted to know the answer, unsure how far he was willing to be drawn into this surprising, nervous, brave little rabbit’s life, the man still couldn’t help but ask, ‘...How? What happened?’

‘I was very stupid, and very, very desperate. And it was all I had left to trade.’ 

‘Oh, we’ve all been there, I’m sure!’ he said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘And a name, what’s that? A rose by any other, eh? I’m sure it’s not all so bad as all that.’

The rabbit looked up then, and the man saw that though its eyes were glistening, it’s expression was as hard as tempered steel. ‘Your name is who you _are_ . It’s how people know you. It’s how they think of you, how they _remember_ you. When you lose your _name_ , you lose -- _everything_. And I traded mine, _fool_ that I was.’

The young man didn’t know what to say to that. What _could_ be said to that? 

‘Did you at least get a good deal?’ he said, cursing his own flippancy even as he spoke.

‘No,’ the rabbit replied, bitterly. ‘I didn’t.’

‘...I’m sorry.’

‘Me too,’ said the rabbit, and it hopped down off of the chair. ‘I’ll-- I’ll go fetch you some blankets.’

The young man watched as the rabbit hopped toward the door at the far end of the room. The fire was still blazing, sending warmth and light out into the room, casting shadows into corners, breaking the silence as the logs crackled in the grate. 

‘Bunny,’ he called out, softly, and the rabbit momentarily froze in his tracks, though it didn’t look back. ‘Thank you.’

The rabbit’s head dipped, and then bobbed in a nod of acknowledgment, and Bunny hopped away. And the young man suddenly felt very, very tired. 

He’d figure it all out in the morning. He’d find a way home, and he’d find a way, any way he could, to repay the kindness of the rabbit who has lost its name. The rabbit who may very well have saved his skin, even if he wasn’t out of the red just yet. The rabbit who, against all of his battle-scarred instincts, the man couldn’t help but trust. The rabbit named _Bunny_. 

Yes, the man thought to himself with all the more resolution for his exhaustion and for being so completely lost, he would come up with a _brilliant_ plan in the morning. He’d figure out everything, just like he always did; and, perhaps, now he’d have an accomplice to help him -- though he could barely bring himself to hope for that. It would be enough if he were able to help out the person -- the rabbit -- no, the _friend_ \-- who had been there for him just when he’d needed someone the most.

The man yawned. Right now what he _really_ needed was some sleep.

* * *

Quite involuntarily as I read the last line, I hugged the pages to my chest, overcome with affection, and more like some giddy schoolgirl rather than the ruthless ex-convict the wrong side of his thirties the world believed me to be. The story was clearly still unfinished, but unlike before, this time I felt rather glad about it, as I had little doubt I could convince Raffles to carry on writing it for me, and the prospect of that was pleasantly thrilling.

I, too, then found myself yawning; and a quick glance at my watch on my bedside table told me that I’d long since left midnight behind me. Just like the dashing, charming, and might I say _oddly familiar_ hero of Raffles' story, I needed sleep as well. But, I thought as I slipped out of bed and padded across the hallway to A. J.’s door, his manuscript still in my hand, there was something else I needed to do rather more pressingly, first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is such pointless nonsense I am so sorry ahahahahahaha


	13. 23: Rip

This story has been reposted as a standalone, and part of the series [_Before The Ides Of March_ ,](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136807) under the title "Lucky Rabbit's Paw": <https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125845>


	14. 25: Buddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. J. RAGGLES AND BUDDY! 
> 
> If you haven't come across these two rivals in infamy to Raffles and Bunny, I direct you to _The Adventures of A.J. Raggles_ series, as written by myself and the ever-magnificent TheChestOfSilver (/the-prince-of-professors): https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904011

In my main volume of accounts in which I have been recording my thrilling adventures with the daring, devilish, dazzling A. J. Raggles, I have been focusing on -- and shall continue to focus upon in future --our escapades together of the sort more dangerous, more daredevil, and more… something else beginning with d. Debonair, perhaps? Or possibly debouchure... Not sure. Doesn’t matter. What I mean to say is that, whilst these diverting deeds _did_ happen, and admittedly make up the more formative episodes of mine and Raggles’ life together, these were by far the exception rather than the rule of our day to day doings. And so, in order to not give the false impression that we were constantly rushing about being brilliant and clever and generally acting as though we were characters stepped straight out of a serial in Cassell’s, I thought it would be worth my time to note down a pithy and paradigmatic example of how Raggles and I spent our time when we were _not_ shocking the unshockable city of London with our notorious and audacious criminal misdeeds.

It was October, and it was raining, and I was in Raggles’ semi-detached house down by the river.

‘It’s raining,’ I said, peering out of a slightly dusty window out at the romantically wild, if a _touch_ overgrown garden beyond.

‘It is October, Buddy,’ Raggles replied from his rocking chair, pulled up close to the low-burning fire. 'It does tend to rain in Octobers.'

‘I suppose so. I must say, I’m jolly glad I’m here in your semi-detached house down by the river, Raggles,’ I said. 

‘Why’s that, Buddy?’

‘Well, for one thing, I’ve a terrible leak in my roof. Whenever it rains I have to put pots all over the floor.’

‘Why?’

‘So that I can put my books in the pot cupboard to stop them from getting wet.’

‘Ah, of course. Good thinking, Buddy. You always were a resourceful little chap like that.'

‘Thanks,' I blushed.

‘But you really ought to think about moving out of that garret of yours, my dear fellow,’ said Raggles, taking a meditative puff of his pipe and attempting to blow a smoke ring. ‘I know it is terribly romantic and artistic to live in a garret--’

‘Dickens lived in a garret, you know. When he was young.’

‘And Hans Christian Anderson,' Raggles added, seriously. 'But still Buddy, my boy, what’s good for the goose isn’t necessarily good for the young-ish chap trying to get by in the big city. Think of your asthma!’

‘Yes,’ I sighed, wandering back to the sopha and flopping down like a Byronic hero, ‘it is a jolly nuisance. I was awake half of last night because of it, you know!'

‘Oh, poor Buddy!’ Raggles cried. ‘With a cough?’

‘No; with Ann Radcliffe.’

‘I say; Bit racy for you, Buddy! Usually you prefer your novels on the tamer side.’

‘Yes, but all of my other books were in the pot cupboard staying dry and it was too cold for me to get out to fetch a safer one.'

‘Of course. Dear me, Buddy, this really won’t do, you know. Why don’t you move out? Find somewhere dryer, where you won’t be forced to stay up all night reading of young ladies and gothic ghosts every time that it rains!'

‘I would,’ I complained with some feeling, ‘but I just can’t afford it!’

‘Ah,’ Raggles said, tapping a long, elegant finger against his strong, unsociable lips. I gazed at him, then, sitting in the firelight, pipe in hand, his worn old smoking jacket about his shoulders, his shaggy curls the colour of freshly polished boots (black ones), his grey eyes like limpid puddles as his thoughts filled them like rain fills potholes, lending him such a refined, sophisticated air that I felt anyone could guess at a glance that he was one of London’s best draughts players. ‘That is a bit of a blockade, isn’t it? -- Oh sorry, Buddy, don’t mean to start with the draughts talk, old boy.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said, waving a dejected hand. ‘I really am checkmated in this one I think, Raggles.’

‘No, Buddy; not checkmated.’

‘No?'

‘No,’ Raggles said, shaking his head. ‘That’s chess.’

‘Oh.’

‘You know I don’t like _chess_ talk.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s all right -- I know it’s confusing. But back to your little problem. You don’t have any ideas what you might be able to do, old boy? Are you sure you don’t have enough money to move to somewhere less damp? After our last little job together, I thought you might be rather more in the black.’

‘Oh, the Caulinthal affair, do you mean?’

‘By Jove, I’d forgotten about that! I meant those steaks we lifted from the butchers -- we both saved a pretty penny on lunches for a week on that! But of course, the Caulinthal job! I thought your plumbing gigs had rather picked up since then? Surely you can afford to shift somewhere you have to water your houseplants yourself by now?’

‘Well,’ I said, kicking my feet up onto Raggles’ coffee table, receiving a pointed Look, and taking them back off again, ‘things _were_ going well on the plumbing front, but…’

‘But?’

I sighed sadly, and Raggles rose from his rocking chair and sat instead beside me on the settee. ‘Is everything all right, Buddy?’ he asked, placing a kindly, strong arm around my shoulders.

‘Oh, it’s silly, Raggles,’ I said.

‘You can tell me anything, Buddy, you know that.’

‘You’ll laugh.’

‘I won’t; honor bright,’ and he tilted his curly head to look me in the eye, his burnished silver glasses catching the light, his eyes shining like streetlights in the rain, his nose sharp and stern like a hawk’s, his lips slightly parted, and pink, and so soft looking that-- ‘Buddy? Are you listening?’

‘What?’ I blinked. ‘Yes. Yes. What?’

‘What’s wrong?

‘Oh. Well, it’s just that-- lately I haven’t been finding plumbing very _fulfilling_ ,’ I muttered, dropping my eyes to the floor -- not _literally_ , of course, but figuratively. Or metaphorically; I forget which, it was such a long time ago now.

‘Not fulfilling, Buddy?’ Raggles repeated after me. ‘But I thought plumbing was your passion, old boy?’

‘It _was_ , A. J.,’ I groaned. ‘I don’t know what’s happened. I suppose once one has had a taste of _adventure_ , suddenly pipes lose their lustre.’

‘But the creativity? The problem-solving? The _glamour_ , Buddy! Do you mean to say you really don’t care at all for plumbing any more?’

‘I’m trying to!’ I cried. ‘Last week I was fixing kitchen pipes for a _Duchess_ , Raggles -- a real, in the flesh _Duchess_ ! And I did a bang-up job of it too, not one mistake, all as neat as you like, and earned a generous tip for it on top of my usual fee! And yet I couldn’t feel any real _satisfaction_ afterwards, and haven't been able to work up the motivation to take any other job since. It doesn't make me _feel_ like I did when you and I lifted those sausages, A. J. Nothing I do can reach those _heights_.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Raggles, his arm still wrapped pleasantly around me, his brow attractively furrowed. ‘...Buddy, can I tell you a secret?’ he said, softly.

‘Anything, Raggles,’ I whispered back. I don’t know why I was whispering, seeings as how we were quite alone in his spacious house, but it seemed appropriate for some reason.

‘The truth is, Buddy-- I feel quite the same way.’

‘Not about draughts!’

‘About draughts, Buddy,’ he nodded gravely. 

‘But Raggles, you played in the local tournament just last week! You performed marvellously! And didn’t you spend the week before practicing? You lost eight or nine pennies pitting yourself against the pros!’

‘You yourself just said what a top drawer job you did on that duchess’s sink without your heart being in it; I find myself in quite the same boat.’

‘Because of’ -- I lowered my voice further -- ‘ _crime_?’

‘What? Speak up, Buddy, I can barely hear you.’

‘Because of crime,’ I repeated. ‘Because of the thrill; the danger; the-- the _romance_ of it all Raggles!’

‘Quite so, Buddy. What're _draughts_ when compared with _delinquency_? What a pretty pair we make, eh? Good thing Scotland Yard don't seem to be onto us, yet. Not a soul knows our secret but us,’ he added, his mischievous smile warmer to me than the sunniest of sunny days in the middle of August. ‘And don't you see, Buddy, that that in itself makes every day life all the more thrilling! Here we are, going about our daily lives, all the while knowing that we are in fact audacious criminals -- yet behaving as though we were nothing more than the respectable and upstanding citizen everyone else believes us to be! There’s something in that, Buddy, my lad. Especially when I remember that _you_ know my secret too; and I yours. It’s like--’

‘--like there is some invisible, unbreakable bond between us,’ I finished for him. ‘A golden thread tying your soul to mine; locking our hearts and our lives together inextricably for all eternity; wherever we are, whoever we are with, whatever we are doing, that secret -- _our secret --_ is always there, bringing us always together across time and space, like our two hands are clasping in the dark!’

‘I was going to say “It’s like bluffing at cards”, but I rather like yours better. It is _exactly_ like that, Buddy.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, Raggles,’ I said.

‘I didn’t think you had,’ he smiled. ‘Do you think the thought of it now might help you feel a little more motivated? Help you to get through your working day with a little more _joie de vivre_?'

‘I love it when you speak French.’

‘What?’

‘I said “Yes, I rather think it might”. Thank you, Raggles. You always know exactly what to say to cheer me up.’

‘And you always cheer me up simply by existing, my dearest little ferret.’

‘Do I?’

‘Of course you do, Buddy. You’re my best friend.’

‘Oh!’ I cried, clasping his hands in mine. ‘And you’re mine, Raggles!’

At that moment, the sun burst through the clouds in a ray of pure gold, pouring in through the window and drenching A. J. in its light, encircling him like a halo; and a rainbow shimmered its way across the sky as the clouds parted as though by some sudden miracle, turning the heavens from grey to blue.

‘Oh,’ I said again. ‘The storm’s stopping.’

‘So it is,’ said Raggles, though he hadn’t turned away from me to look. 

‘I suppose that means I can go back home again,’ I said, sadly.

‘Oh, yes,’ Raggles said. ‘I suppose it does.’

‘I do hate leaving you, though.’

‘And I hate you leaving.’

‘I wish I could stay here always, you know.’

‘So do I, Buddy. It’s never so cold in this little house as when you’re not in it.’

‘You really shouldn’t rely on me to keep the fire stacked with coals, A. J.’

‘I shall miss you, Buddy.’

‘I’ll come back again tomorrow, Raggles, I promise!’

‘I’ll hold you to that. And I hope that your rooms aren’t too damp. Do try and find somewhere else to live, old boy. I hate to think of you all alone in that cold attic.’

‘And I hate to think of you all alone in this big, empty house...’

For a moment we sat gazing into one another’s eyes, hands still clasped, knees touching. 

‘Raggles?’ I asked, quietly.

‘Yes, Buddy?’

‘Did you leave my wet coat hanging in the hallway, or did you take it up to the spare bedroom, I can’t remember?’

‘Oh, I left it in the hall. Didn’t want to get the bed wet. No one ever uses it, but still, don’t want the sheets to get all damp.’

‘Good thinking. I’ll go and fetch it and then be on my way.’

‘All right, Buddy,’ he said, clapping me on the shoulder and rising to stand with me. ‘If only we could find a better solution to your housing problem, eh? But I’m sure something will crop up. We just have to have _faith_ , my boy -- I’m certain the answer will be just staring us in the face!’

‘And until then,’ I said, smiling up at the man to whom I felt I owed everything and more, ‘I can spend my plumbing days knowing that my soul is always holding hands with your soul, in our secret partnership of crime.’

‘Always together, Buddy. Always.’

‘Well, I’d better go,’ I said, giving him one last, wistful look before dragging myself away. ‘Goodbye, A. J.’

‘Goodbye, Buddy. I’ll miss you.’

‘I’ll miss you too. See you tomorrow.’

And, giving his strong, glittering, handsome hand one final and firm squeeze, I left.


	15. 27: Music

REPOSTED as a standalone story here, under the title, [_Your Last Dance_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263068)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still VERY TIRED


	16. 29: Shoes

_Earth’s crammed with heaven,  
_ _and every common bush afire with God,  
but only he who sees, takes off his shoes,  
the rest sit round it and pluck blackberries. _

_~ Aurora Leigh,_ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

* * *

There are many reasons for which I have long wanted to write an account of mine and A.J. Raffles’ life together; because being a newly released ex-convict I have little money and fewer prospects outside of writing; because A. J. always enjoyed the idea of immortalised infamy; because they are good stories, and good stories ought always to be heard; and because in writing episodes of our past life, I can through memory relive them and, for a while, be with him again. But I also want these stories published because I feel the need to set the record straight as regards the character and personality of A. J. Raffles. Since our arrest, my conviction, and Raffles’ condemnation _in absentia_ , it seems the whole world has an opinion to voice on the manner of man my friend, my partner, my hero and my villain was; and as is so often the case with such things, everyone is getting it all wrong.

Some have him down as malicious, violent, and degenerate. Others as manipulative, conniving, and evil. More still are painting him as little more than a common crook, whose sporting prowess opened the door to a polite society of which he ought never to have been a part, our criminal success owing far more to the naive and good-hearted trust of our marks than to any ingenuity or skill. Any of Raffles’ positive attributes, of which he had many that were subtle and many more still that were patently undeniable even to his most virulent of detractors, those virtues of his that would be lauded in another are now marked down in him as frauds, as fallacies, as little more than further blinds to dazzle and confuse his victims and enemies into trusting a man so obviously untrustworthy to his core. All that was good in him is erased, and all that was bad magnified tenfold. Even those who had known Raffles personally, did not _know Raffles personally_. It’s all too easy for his charisma, his charm, his dazzling wit to in retrospect be corrupted; all of those things for which our fairweather friends had so adored him, are turned now to ammunition to be used against him. 

And I, too, have been egregiously misrepresented; though never so much so as Raffles, for his fame mutated to the blackest of infamies. Just as I shone only with his reflected light when all the world held him in favour, so now I only fade into his shadows as he is cast into darkness. I am, so every man in the street would have you believe, the insignificant Bunny Manders; the weak; the fool; the easily led; the nobody who did nothing but have the poor luck to stumble into the path of Raffles’ oncoming train. The unfortunate wretch carried away by a blackguard’s stronger will, and with no more choice or personal agency than a barrel going over a waterfall. Some have gone so far as to claim I was innocent of all wrong-doing, heaping all of my guilt and all of my sins onto the broad shoulders of the best and truest friend I ever had. 

In essence, the world has made two-dimensional caricatures of the both of us; he the Machiavellian villain with nary a scruple, moral, nor finer feeling in his heart, and I the pitiable sidekick with the wit of a lion, the courage of a lamb, and about the same moral culpability as a beaten dog still trailing loyally behind its sinful master. I can’t deny that I have allowed this to anger and upset me. But I have come to realise -- and the isolation of the prison cell is a _wonderful_ place for such realisations -- that people are _stupid._ It's easier to reduce the world down to basics; good and bad, right and wrong, kind and cruel, hero and villain; and so that's what they do. It takes much too much long, hard, serious thought to acknowledge, accept and understand life for all of its complicated, tangled, and contradictory magnificence; and it takes far too much effort for them to see A.J. for all of _his_ complicated, tangled and contradictory magnificence. And how could they, when all that they know of the man I so loved is that which they read in newspapers, or hear on the street? How could they, when that is all they want to see?

Raffles saw the world differently. Where others would see only one path, Raffles could see one hundred; for every missed shot, he could fire a thousand more. His mind was like lightning bottled, his heart as soft and as sure as gold, his sight as clear and as limitless as a cloudless night sky. When Raffles let you in, when he held open the door to his world and invited you to step through, suddenly you realised just how closed off, how closed minded, how thoroughly blindfolded to everything you had always been. A.J. could see the potential in everything, the artistry in everything, heaven crammed into every inch of the earth -- and hell, too. Whilst the rest of the world was underwater, muted, drowning, and swept along with the tide, Raffles was on _fire_ \-- dangerous and enticing and vibrant and so very _alive_. To him, every bush was burning, and nothing was merely of itself. Raffles never needed a voice of God to tell him right from wrong, never condescended to remove his sandals at the temple gates -- his shoes were already off in reverence to a world filled to overbrimming with beauty, and poetry, and opportunity rife for those willing to take the risk of grasping for it.

And all of this is why I want to write about him; to add colour to the black and white newspaper sketches which so poorly represent him; to complicate the shallow and simplistic beliefs which so many have come to hold. I want the world to see the Raffles _that I saw_ , to know the Raffles _that I knew_ \-- not merely for accuracy’s sake, nor for pride’s alone; but because A.J. Raffles was _magnificent._ He was one in a million. Artist, and sportsman, and gentleman, and genius, villain, and hero, and visionary. To allow such an extraordinary portrait to become so corrupted, and twisted, and grotesque is to do a disservice to the world as well as to him; but some people would rather smash the Grecian urn for being obscure than seek to understand its beauty.

Perhaps it is naive of me to hope that society might one day see A.J. as I do; perhaps it is unjustifiable hubris on my part to think that my paltry, lacking writings might turn the tide so set against him. And perhaps ultimately it is a Sisyphean task, akin to explaining the wonders of Spring to a bird pecking at a sprouting flower, or the vastness of the cosmos to a moth consumed by candle’s flame. Even I, who knew him so well, who knew him better than any person living, even I could never know his deepest depths or his highest heights; could never hope to map all of the myriad labyrinthine paths which led to the heart of the man. I am not so much a fool as people believe me to be. I don’t hope for the world to see A.J. Raffles for all that he was, only to see that there is more to be seen; only to understand that for every villainous act, there was a virtuous one, and that sometimes the two overlapped so much as to be indistinguishable; only that the easy answers rarely speak the truth. I only want the world to see that Raffles, _my Raffles_ , was not some trickster god, arrogant and capricious and foiled by his own hubris; but that he was, to the last, a Daedalus, reaching for the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a link to a section of the very, very long epic novel poem _Aurora Leigh_ , by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, quoted at the start of this chapter, and which served as the inspiration for it! Because it is PRETTY! https://www.bartleby.com/236/86.html


	17. 31: Crawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Note 01/11/2020: Now UPDATED and fixed HURRAY! And that is Inktober 2020 Officially Finished!! Ah!! Huzzah!!!! 
> 
> First Note31/10/2020: I'm not going to proof read this until tomorrow, because I'm tired, and there is only 7 minutes left of Halloween. Apologies in advance for any typos, sentences that stop for no clear reason, inconsistencies, out of character moments, and general weirdness. What can I say? I'm exhausted. hahahah! But still, this was fun to write. Also, partially inspired by real events.... Ohhhh tantalising, much?!

I feel I ought to begin this tale by asserting that I do not and have never-- have _nearly never_ \-- believed in things supernatural. On the matter of an afterlife or of God I remain cautiously agnostic, but when it comes to ghosts, goblins, ghouls and all things that go bump in the night I am a hardened skeptic. I am also, however, in possession of a vivid imagination which tends to run away with itself; a reasonably open mind; and, most importantly, an impish devil named A. J. Raffles... Such a combination on a dark and stormy All Hallow’s Eve would prove enough to shake even the firmest of disbelievers, even if for only a moment; and I confess that I was shaken, that night. Of other unexplained phenomena I remain rationally skeptical; but I cannot deny that certain things happened on that dark and stormy night which neither I nor A. J. were ever able to explain. I doubt that we ever will.

‘It’s certainly kicking up a storm out there, rabbit,’ Raffles said, pulling back the curtains and looking out at the rain as it hammered against the glass in fat droplets the size of marbles. ‘I won’t be surprised if there are some more trees down, tomorrow.’

‘The river will probably flood, too, if it keeps up like this,’ I replied, absently, not looking up from my writing.

‘And I’d wanted to go out tonight,’ A.J. said with a sigh, closing the curtains against the chill once more and coming to sit on the corner of my desk. ‘Burglary on Halloween is always great fun; though it does take a bit of the risk out of it. If you get caught in your mask, you can just claim you are a less-than-sober young blood lost on his way home from a costume party.’

‘I doubt many people will be venturing out in this weather,’ I said, still not looking up from my work. 'And even if we braved it, I imagine few others would be so foolish; there'll be barely any empty houses tonight! And everyone stays up late on Halloween, on the look out for ghosts -- doesn’t sound like an ideal night for it to me.’ 

‘You speak so sensibly about crime these days, Bunny; anyone would think you were discussing a job in an office!’

‘Mm,’ was all that I replied. I only had a few hundred more words to go, and I dearly wanted to get it out of the way before the clock struck eight. Not for any reason; my pen wouldn’t turn back into a pumpkin, or anything like that; it was simply that eight had been the arbitrary goal I had set myself for finishing, and I was loathe to miss it. 

‘Though you are quite right; rainstorms are not the cracksman’s friend,’ Raffles said, leaning over my shoulder. I don’t know what interest Raffles had in Florence Cook, whom my tedious article was to be on, but he was reading my words even as I wrote them. It was extremely annoying.

‘Raffles, can you not?’ I snapped, scribbling out the third sentence in a row. ‘It’s impossible to concentrate with you _haunting_ my every word!’

‘Ah, but you forget,’ he said, leaning in close and whispering in my ear, running his fingers up my arms as though they were spiders, making me shiver, ‘ _I_ am _a ghost_. Twice over!'

This produced several conflicting and contradictory responses in me, but the one I listened to, for the sake of the poor article I had been slaving over for two long days, was irritation. I shrugged Raffles off impatiently. ‘A.J., please.’

'Please what?'

' _Go away!_ Look, I really won't be much longer,' I added after I noticed his expression, relenting almost immediately in the face of those clear eyes, shining in the lamp light, buckling beneath the gentle pressure of his hand upon my shoulder as he rose to leave.

'All right, I'm sorry,' he said, drifting to the door. 'I'll leave you in peace, old chap.'

'I really won't be long,' I persisted; now that he was giving me what I wanted, I realised that being left alone wasn't what I'd wanted at _all._ If I didn’t have to finish that _damned_ article-- 'I'll be finished with this in--'I skimmed over my page and groaned. 

'That bad, Bunny?'

'Worse,’ I replied. ‘But I'm not working on it later than eight. I _will_ have it finished by then. ...I will probably have it finished by then.'

'What a hardworking rabbit it is!’ Raffles said from the door, tilting his head with what seemed at the time to me mock sympathy. ‘No time at all for play -- you want to watch that, Bunny; it’s not healthy.’

‘Yes, well, neither is missing yet another deadline and losing out on yet another pay cheque.’

‘You know we don’t need the money, rabbit, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘But it does help, A.J., for us to have some _visible_ source of income, for me to have an obvious profession -- it’s not much of a protection, but it’s all that I can offer. Except I can’t even do _that_ if I can’t _finish it_ \--!’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,’ Raffles said, and upon those words did as he stated, leaving me alone in my room to write. I banged my head on the desk.

Some while later -- and after only marginal progress made on my article -- I heard a crash come from somewhere down the hallway which nearly made me leap out of my skin, sending a jagged blue line across the page. I jumped to my feet and dashed into the hall.

'A.J.? Are you all right? What happened?'

A curly white head peeked out from his bedroom door wearing the brightest and most mischievous of grins. 'Come and have a look what I've found, Bunny!'

His room when I entered it was a mess. I don't know what he had been doing to occupy himself whilst I was squirrelled away working, but it looked as though he had been waging a small war against the furniture.

'Raffles, what the hell have you been doing? Mrs ---- will kill us if she sees this mess!'

'Not her dear old Mr Ralph, she won’t. Anyway I'll put it all back before she sets eyes on it -- but look! Look!' 

He gestured impatiently for me to join him as he scampered over the bed and across to the other side of the room. He had pulled out his wardrobe, and there behind it was a little cupboard door built right into the wall.

'What do you make of that, Bunny?' Raffles asked, all excitement.

'Why did you move your wardrobe?'

'I dropped a box of candles and some rolled beneath it,’ he shrugged. 

‘What did you want with candles? We've got electric.'

‘Bunny, how do you always manage to latch on to the most irrelevant aspect of any situation? Anyway, it’s a bit of luck that I did want candles, or I’d never have found _this_ little mystery. Go on, open it -- I already have, so there aren’t any monsters waiting to jump out at you. I didn't think the walls between your room and mine were so thick as to house a cupboard, though it isn't a terribly deep one. It’s covered in cobwebs, but I can’t help but wonder whether it goes all the way through; a sort of doored tunnel rather than a cupboard. Perhaps plastered over on the other side, we’ll have to have a look. Old houses like this often have all sorts of architectural anomalies. I say, I wonder if I could crawl through it? It’s a little tight, but perhaps if I took off all my clothes first... Just like old times, eh?’

‘Don’t you dare; what if you got stuck halfway? A fine time we would have explaining _that_ to Mrs ---- ...What’s that inside?’

‘Ah! Yes!’ he exclaimed, immediately, though I doubted permanently, distracted from his crawl-space plan. ‘That’s even more mysterious, rabbit! Take a look; you’ll like it.’

I did look; though I’m not sure whether I liked what I found. Contained within the previously hidden cupboard was a stack of browning letters written in some kind of coded language, an old, locked, rusting tin box, and a photograph in a cheap, thin frame. 

‘Good Lord; how long have these been in here?’

‘I don’t know; a fair old while, judging by the dust, but within the advent of the camera at any event. I had a look through the letters but I can’t make head nor tail of them; they’re in some sort of hieroglyphic. But I reckon we could crack it given a little time. But look at the photograph a little more closely, Bunny. Tell me what you make of it.’

I did so.

‘A girl,’ I said, perceptively. ‘Who is she?’

‘No idea,’ Raffles replied. ‘I suppose she is the same person who wrote the letters, or the letters were written to her, perhaps. But look _behind her_ , Bunny. Now, what do you make of _that_!’ 

Raffles laughed again as I gasped in spite of myself -- for standing behind the sitting young woman who was the main focus of the photographic portrait, there was a ghostly, blurred image of a young man, hard to notice at first, but once you saw him, impossible to unsee.

‘A ghost?’

‘It does look like that, doesn’t it?’

‘But ghosts aren’t real,’ I muttered. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Raffles.’

‘You suggested it, not me, Bunny!’ he chuckled. ‘I didn’t think you were the superstitious type.’

‘I’m not! I just said, didn’t I? Ghosts aren’t real. No, what I meant to say, was -- Regardless of how it _looks_ it’s clearly just -- double exposure, or the boy was in the scene but moved away before the image had time to develop, or -- It’s clearly an old photograph; the clothes the girl is wearing are at least thirty years out of fashion; cameras weren’t so good in the sixties as they are now.’

Raffles shot me a wry smile as he leaned up against the wall beside the open cubby hole.

‘What?’ I asked. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Paranormal Detective Rabbit, solving the Mystery of the Ghostly Photograph! Oh, don’t look at me like that, Bunny; I mean it affectionately! Perhaps you ought to join the Society for Psychical Research as a free-lance?’

‘You _know_ I don’t believe in the supernatural, Raffles.’

‘So you say; yet your mind still leaped to a supernatural explanation first, didn’t it?’ he teased -- or, at least, I think he was teasing.

‘That doesn’t mean I believe in ghosts, A.J.,’ I protested, taking his bait. ‘It’s Halloween. You’ve been talking about ghosts. I’ve been writing that _damned_ biography piece on that spiritualist -- I’m being positively _haunted_ by the occult tonight, of course that’ll leap to mind. Doesn’t mean I _believe_ in any of that nonsense.’

‘I do,’ he said, flippantly, and I scoffed.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You do not.’

‘I might,’ he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching down on a smile.

‘Yes, but you _don’t_ , do you. This current craze for the supernatural is nothing more than a ridiculous fad, pushed by -- by charlatans and fraudsters preying on the vulnerable. None of it is evidenced, _actually_ evidenced, and more spirit mediums have been proven as fakes than I can count -- and I’ve had to count, for this bloody article. I’m sick to death of it all.’

‘Ah, well, I don’t deny the existence of fraudsters and conmen -- and conwomen. But can’t you concede that there are things that we don’t yet know; things that science and rational thought still can’t explain? There are more things in heaven and earth, Bunny, than are dreamt of in your philosophy! Don’t you ever wonder about it?’ Raffles pushed himself away from the wall as he spoke and circled me, leaning in ever closer as carried on, near enough for me to feel the warmth radiating from him, but never quite touching me, almost as though he were an apparition himself. ‘Don’t you ever enjoy the _thrill_ of _mystery_?’

I swallowed and bit my lip whilst he couldn't see my face, and then composed myself before turning to look at him. When I did so, I met his puckish gaze with a determinedly cynical one of my own. ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘No desire for mystery, no yearning for gothic horror, none of it. If it is a Catherine Moreland you are after, Raffles, you’re with the wrong person.’

A cheeky grin replaced the would-be enigmatic expression on Raffles’ face as he pressed a rough kiss to my forehead. ‘A Bunny Manders is quite good enough for me,’ he chuckled. ‘And I’m quite glad to hear that you don’t go in for all of that -- if you were a frightened little rabbit who believed in ghosts, it would be much harder to convince you to do the spirit board with me. As it is, you’ll have no objections!’

‘Spirit board?’ I frowned. ‘What spirit board? Who said anything about a spirit board?’

‘Remember that one I found in that old desk drawer last week; the one that Mrs ---- had lost the key for, so I picked it.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I muttered.

‘Oh, it’s all right; I told her I worked as a locksmith in Australia. But again, Bunny, I find that you are focusing on the _least_ interesting aspect. I’ve still got the spirit board; I thought we could have a go with it, what do you say?’

‘She asked you to get rid of that, Raffles. You promised her you would.’

‘I promised her I would take it out of her possession, Bunny, and so I have; now it’s in my possession, and any demons that also possess it are my responsibility, not hers.’

‘That’s a low way of twisting your words. You’re lying in every way but technically!’

Raffles waved away my habitual chastisement and flopped down onto his bed. Pawing about beneath it, ever the oversized child, with his head over the side and his hair, grown far too long, tumbling like white water over rapids, he pulled out the spirit board he was supposed to have gotten rid of. ‘Look at it, Bunny,’ he said when once more upright. ‘It’s a work of art! I couldn’t be expected to destroy or discard something so beautiful! It’s sacrilege!’

‘I’m not sure destroying a spirit board would be considered _sacrilege_ , A.J…’

‘Blasphemy, then, against all of the Muses and Art herself!’

‘And you want _us_ to use it?’

‘It’s All Hallows’ Eve, Bunny, Samhain. What better night for it?’

‘You aren’t serious?’

‘I’m always serious, Bunny.’

‘I’m not doing a spirit board with you!’

‘Why not? Tonight of all nights, if folklore is to be believed -- and disregard it at your peril -- the veil between worlds is thin; the ghosts and witches and ghouls are all out to play… And here we are, stuck indoors out of the lot of it. What else are we going to do in this weather? And you need a break, rabbit. You work yourself far too hard. This is just the thing!’

‘But a _spirit board_ , A.J… Why can’t we just -- I don’t know, read, or talk, or-- _anything_.’

‘If you’re too frightened, old chap, just say so.’

I knew he was deliberately provoking me, but I still fell for it. ‘I’m _not_ frightened!’

‘I really won’t think any less of you if you are…’

‘ _I’m not_!’

‘Well, come on then!’ he grinned, and I knew I’d lost. Raffles sprang to his feet and caught me by the wrist.

And of course, as always, I let him lead me away.

I am sure you do not need to be told that Raffles is a theatrical creature; he enjoys the performance of crime almost as much as the danger of it -- though he would deny it, I’m sure. But he was as much the performer at play as he was professionally, and so I was little surprised when we half-tumbled into the living room (for I _may_ have waylaid him _slightly_ in the hall…) to find the room set up with tens of candles, an upturned (empty!) fishbowl, presumably intended to resemble a crystal ball, and a black lace shawl -- God only knows where he found _that_ \-- thrown over the coffee table with pillows strewn on the floor around it. It was ridiculous. It was raffish. It was just a little bit romantic.

‘Good God, A.J., it looks like a Parisian whorehouse.’

‘How would you know?’

‘...I’ve read books.’

‘Well, the wrong ones, clearly,’ he frowned, and I felt bad for making fun of his efforts. He really had, in a relatively short space of time and with few tools at his disposal transformed our cosy living room into a Bohemian fortune-teller’s den. And all as a distraction for me. 

‘You did all this?’

‘Yes, well, _atmosphere_ matters, Bunny. You have to get the _art_ of the thing right; no self respecting ghost is going to make an appearance if you haven’t at least put in some effort. At least none that I want to talk to, anyway.’

‘I appreciate … _this_ ,’ I said gesturing to the room, ‘But you do know that no ghost is going to make an appearance _either way_ . Ghosts aren’t real! Spirit boards are just -- ideomotor movements! _You_ know that; you were the one who showed me that article about it; when the mind is cleared, the body makes tiny movements we aren’t even aware of, that’s how these things work -- when they aren’t being tampered with by complete charlatans. Spirit boards manifest _nothing_ but your own imagination, your own thoughts.’

‘So if a ghost begins telling me how irresistible I am, I shouldn’t worry, you mean?’ He winked at me, and I laughed in spite of myself. There was always something so infectious about Raffles’ enthusiasm; he sparked with gaiety and humour and life. I did love him in these moods, even though they often resulted in trouble of one sort or another -- or followed it. But still, trouble or no, this was Raffles at his best, and I could no more resist his sincere charm than I could turn into a bat and fly out of the window.

‘Oh, fine,’ I said taking the board from his hands and placing it on the low table. ‘But don’t be disappointed when nothing happens. And can we at least turn on the small electric lamp? I can hardly see in here. How did anyone ever get by with only candles?’

‘You did, until not long ago!’

‘Yes, and dark days they were!’

That quip earned me a kiss -- for just as Raffles’ masterful charm never failed to win me over, my capability for puns had a similar effect upon him -- and I was beginning to feel that this evening was taking a decided turn for the better. Eight o’clock had _long_ since gone and I still hadn’t finished my article, but for once I didn’t care. It was Halloween; to hell with it. I didn’t want to write; I wanted to sit on the floor with Raffles and play silly, childish games. 

Raffles acquiesced to my request to turn on the smaller of the electric lamps, and, once done, we sat down on the pillows before the spirit board.

‘You know how to use it, Bunny?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve had to read about them a great deal, recently. Do you?’

Raffles nodded, and I wasn’t surprised. ‘Are you ready then?’

Suddenly I found I was feeling irrationally trepidatious. I knew that it wasn’t _real_ \-- at least, I knew that it wouldn’t summon real ghosts, because I knew that ghosts weren’t real; but still, there was a chill in the air and the candles were flickering, and though I didn’t truly believe, something in me, just for a moment, seemed like perhaps it _might_.

‘Yes,’ I said.

Together, Raffles and I placed our fingers onto the planchette.

‘...Do you know what we are supposed to say?’ I asked.

‘Anything, I suppose,’ Raffles shrugged. ‘Hello?’

‘Is anyone there?’

‘Any spirits feel like some light conversation?’

We stared at the board, and nothing happened.

‘I told you,’ I said, shaking my head, pretending not to feel relieved -- pretending more not to feel _disappointed_. ‘Nothing.’

‘You’re so impatient, Bunny,’ Raffles chastised. ‘You have to give them chance. You don’t rush to answer the phone if someone calls you and you’re busy.’

‘ _You_ don’t; I do.’

‘Maybe we just need to introduce ourselves,’ Raffles suggested. ‘Formally. Bad form, really, to go demanding people speak with you when they don’t even know who you are.’ He cleared his throat and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. ‘Good evening, ghosts, ghouls, spirits, and whatever and whoever else might be out there; my name is --’ Raffles stopped addressing the empty air above us and turned instead to me. ‘Do you think I should give my real name, Bunny?’

‘Do I think you should tell the empty room your real name? I think it _might_ be _just_ about safe... Although, do you think we can trust the grandfather clock not to go running off to the Yard to spill our secrets? And that ceramic dog on the mantel always looked shifty, to me.’

‘Yes, I never liked that dog,’ Raffles agreed, eyeing it critically from our place on the floor before snapping back to attention. ‘But you’re right; if there are ghosts here, then presumably they know all, anyway.’

‘... _All?’_ said, glancing back toward the hall, and Raffles cleared his throat.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of our _burgling_ , Bunny…’ 

‘Oh. Yes. Me too.’

‘Moving on…’ Raffles said, shaking his head at me. ‘Good evening, ghosts. My name is A. J. Raffles -- yes, _that one_ \-- and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Bunny?’

I sighed and humoured him. ‘Hello, _ghosts_. I am Harry Manders, Bunny. I’m A.J.’s -- well, essentially I’m his husband, by all measures except legally, so anything you may or may not have seen really isn’t quite as scandalous as--

‘For goodness’ sake, Bunny!’

‘Right, yes. That is to say ...Nice to meet you?’ 

Raffles tutted at my prosaic words. ‘Spirits in our presence: We are here seeking communion with you on this dark and stormy Halloween night. If you are here, please make yourself known. We’ll wait.’

We waited.

And waited. 

And nothing happened.’

‘Perhaps we need to _ask_ something? I suggested. Does anyone need our _help_?’ 

My question won me a soft smile from A.J.; though it was short-lived as almost immediately the planchette began to quiver beneath our fingertips, before darting with alarming rapidity to _YES._ It felt as though my hand was being physically dragged across the board by the inanimate pointer of wood. I knew that that was impossible, but that was _exactly_ how it felt. Evidently Raffles felt it, too, for after a moment of surprised silence, we both began talking at the same time.

‘Bunny, if you aren’t--’

‘Raffles, it’s not funny--’

‘--going to take this seriously--’

‘--I know you moved it, I _felt_ you pull--’

‘--then there’s no point in us doing --’

We both stopped and looked at one another.

‘You didn’t move it?’ I asked, and Raffles shook his curly head.

‘Nor you?’

‘No. Why would _I_ move it; you’re the one trying to convince _me_ to be more open minded. You swear you didn’t Raffles?’

‘I swear,’ he said.

‘Ideomotor movements?’ I said, uncertainly. ‘I didn’t think they were so strong, but…’

‘Or ghosts,’ Raffles replied, eyes flashing. ‘Come on, Bunny, buy into the spirit of the thing, and rationalise it away after, if you must. It’s much more fun that way.’

I looked him over, and sighed. ‘Is there a ghost communicating with us now?’ I said into the air.

The planchette dipped and bobbed back onto the _YES_ , and Raffles eyes lit up.

‘Well, that’s a turn up for the books. All right; we have introduced ourselves, it’s only sporting you do the same. What is your name?’ Raffles asked.

And the planchette began to move again, in jerky motions at first, though becoming increasingly more smooth as though it were getting into its stride.

_D - O - L - L - I - E_

‘Dollie,’ I murmured, more to myself than anything else. ‘Your name is Dollie, and you need us to help you?’

The planchette flew back to _YES_ barely before I’d finished speaking. I pulled my hand away as though the thing were red hot.

‘That was quite emphatic,’ Raffles said coolly.

‘Raffles, do you _swear_ to me that you aren’t moving it? I won’t be cross with you if you are; I know you are just trying to cheer me up. But I -- Are you moving that planchette?’

‘Not deliberately if I am, Bunny,’ he said, quite seriously, though his eyes were still a-glitter with the thrill of it all.

‘Promise me?’

‘I can’t speak for those ideomotor movements we read about, but I can swear to you now on all that I hold holy that I am not to my knowledge consciously moving that planchette. I promise Bunny; you know I wouldn’t lie on that. And you aren’t, either?’

‘Of course I’m not.’

‘Well then,’ he replied. ‘We’d better find out what Dollie wants to say, eh?’

I steeled myself up, reiterating in my thoughts once more that no matter how it appeared, none of this was _real_ , and put my finger back onto the planchette besides Raffles’.

‘Now. Dollie. I have a quick question, if you could answer just to satisfy my curiosity -- are you by any chance the young lady in the photograph?’

For a moment the planchette wavered, seeming first to pull toward _YES_ , and then toward _NO_ , before stopping again in the middle.

‘I think she’s confused,’ I said. ‘You need to be more clear.’

‘This photo,’ Raffles repeated, reaching over to pick it up and waving it in the air, as if that would help the “ghost” to see it, ‘are you in it?’

_YES_

‘Good thinking, rabbit,’ Raffles said to me with an approving smile. ‘You’re a natural at this. So, Dollie is the girl in the photo. I must say, I’m rather glad about that. Always nice to put a face to a name.’

‘I wonder if she can help us decipher those letters?’

‘Good idea, rabbit!’ Raffles cried, brightly. ‘Did you hear that, Dollie? Can you tell us the key?’

_NO_

‘Oh. Jolly unsporting of you. Why not?’ 

Raffles was beginning to chat to the board as though he were talking to an old pal. I wasn’t sure whether I found that worrying or adorable.

_P - R - I - V - A - T - E_

‘Understandable,’ I said, thinking of my own cipher-coded journals. I wouldn’t want to give the key to that out to strangers either, even if I _were_ dead. 

_S - E - C - R - E - T_ , the planchette spelled out.

‘Yes, so I gathered,’ said Raffles. ‘You’re sure you don’t feel like some after-life confessional? Good for the soul, I’ve heard, though I’ve never gone in for it myself.

_T - H - I - E - F_

‘Dollie was a thief?’

 _NO_ … _Y - O - U_

I glanced at Raffles; a steely glint had entered his eyes.

‘Thief? I prefer cracksman, personally; or prince of professors for first choice. Thief sounds so _common_.’

‘What’s that go to do with anything?’ I added, defensively -- I was speaking defensively to a piece of wood with letters carved onto it. ‘Are you _threatening_ us?’ I didn’t take well to being threatened, not even my figments of my own imagination.

‘Bunny, calm down old chap!’ Raffles said with a light laugh and a shake of his head. ‘Perhaps dear old Dollie here is complimenting us, rather than threatening!’

_I - K - N - O - W_

‘That A. J. Raffles is a cracksman? You and most of the English speaking world, my dear girl,’ said Raffles with characteristic cool. ‘I suppose you can still read newspapers in the afterlife.’

‘I’m not sure I like this ghost, Raffles. I don’t like her tone.’

‘ _Tone_ , Bunny? It’s letters on a wooden board.’

‘You know what I mean. Why, of anything they could say, are they saying this? Why are you telling us you know about our -- profession?’ I asked in challenge to the empty air.

_F - A - N_

‘What?’

_F - A - N_

‘Fan of what?’

_A - J_

Raffles burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you might not like this ghost, but I certainly do. Thank you, Dollie. Which are you a fan of, the crime or the cricket?’

_B - O - T - H_

‘Clearly a young lady of culture!’

_P - R - E - T - T - Y_

‘What’s pretty?’

_A - J_

‘Now hold on a moment!’ I said, indignant.

_A - N - D - Y - O - U_

‘Oh, for God’s sake…’

‘I am liking this apparition more and more by the minute!’ Raffles chuckled. ‘Bunny _is_ an exceptionally pretty little thing, isn’t he?’

_YES_

‘Shouldn’t we get back to the point?’ I complained. ‘Dollie, you said you needed our help with something?’ I’m ashamed to say that by that point I was becoming quite drawn in to it all, in spite of my better judgement. Raffles was right; it was good fun, even if the ghost was flirting with Raffles right in front of me. 

_YES_

‘What do you need help with?’ Raffles asked. 

The planchette flew to the top of the board. For a moment Raffles and I both stared, perplexed, at the board; for the place the planchette point had emphatically landed showed nothing more than mere decoration and embellishment. And then, amidst the painted flowers, I saw the letters hidden among the ornamentation.

‘Rest In Peace,’ Raffles said beneath his breath, and hearing the words spoken allowed sent a shiver down the back of my neck -- and not in the pleasant way as when A.J. was teasing me. This felt _cold_. ‘You want to rest in peace, but you can’t? That’s what you need help with. How _devilishly_ romantic. I suppose you _are_ dead, then?’ he asked.

_YES_

‘Of course. Stupid question, really.’

_YES_

‘When did you die, Dollie?’ I asked.

_NO_

‘Wrong question,’ Raffles said, furrowing his brow. ‘ _How_ did you die, Dollie?’

_S - H - O -T_

‘Dramatic,’ Raffles said, with a low whistle. ‘Suicide?’

_NO_

‘Murder?’

_YES_

‘A.J., I don’t like this. It was fun, before, but this is getting dark.’

Raffles ignored me. ‘ _Here_ ?’ he asked the -- well, he _asked_. 

_YES_

‘Raffles! We should stop, I don't like this.’ 

‘Shh, Bunny. How can we help you _rest in peace_ , Dollie? What do you want?’

_R - A - C - H - E_

‘ _Rache_?’ I read aloud. 

‘Isn’t that from--’

‘--that detective book?’

Raffles and I caught one another’s eye. ‘A ghost who is a fan of modern crime fiction?’ I said, and Raffles shrugged. 

‘You want revenge, Dollie? On who?’

‘The murderer, obviously,’ I said.

‘Never assume things, Bunny.’

_NO_

‘No? No _what_?’

_R - A - C - H - E - L_

I sighed. ‘This is stupid. It's just coming out with nonsense, now.’

‘Who is Rachel?’ Raffles asked.

_S - A - Y - H - E - L - L -O_

‘Say hello to Rachel?’

_NO_

‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ I complained. ‘We’ve broken it.’

‘Who do you want us to say hello to?’

_M - E_

‘...Hello?’

_NO_

‘What, then?’ Raffles said, the same exasperated tone entering his voice as when he was fielding more questions from me than I cared to answer.

_M - Y - B - O - D - Y_

And at that point I pushed the board away from us and scrambled backwards with a sharp exhalation that was _not_ a yelp.

‘All right there, Bunny?’

‘All right! _All right!_ Raffles, a murdered ghost just asked us to say hello to her dead body! I don’t like this. It’s far too morbid. I’m going to have nightmares for _weeks_.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?’

‘I don’t! I-- But-- Look, you _know_ how I get with things. I don’t believe in vampires either, but remember what happened after I read _Dracula_?’

‘But you still read it to the end, didn’t you?’ he replied. ‘Come on, Bunny, admit it: You are at least a little intrigued. And you hate a mystery as much as I love one; don’t you want to get to the bottom of it?’

I hesitated. Raffles was, as he so often was, quite right; I was curious. I was also scared. But it was a fear worn on the surface; it crawled around under my skin, making my hairs stand on end and heart race; it didn’t seep into the bones of me. It didn’t touch the rational, sensible part of me which, I knew, come morning would be confused and embarrassed that I had ever been frightened at all. It was fear, yes, but it was also _thrill_. And thrill, as I and A.J. both knew only too well, was an addictive sensation, and devilishly hard to resist.

And so was Raffles’ smile.

‘If we get murdered by poltergeists, Raffles…’

‘Then we’ll come back and haunt Richmond together, just the same as we do now, what do you say to that? I can’t do it without you, Bunny, so if you stop, I’ll have to stop, too.’

‘Oh, _fine_ ,’ I relented, touching the board once again. 

‘That’s my rabbit,’ he grinned. ‘All right, then, Dollie, you want us to… say hello to your corpse?’ -- and even Raffles winced as he said that -- ‘Why? Were you not buried properly, or something?’

_YES_

‘All right. So you were murdered, and then not buried in the way you’d have preferred. Not to sound callous, old girl, but what exactly do you want us to do about that?’

_F - I - N - D … RIP … RIP_

The storm was still raging outside, rattling the windows and drowning out all normal sounds of Richmond life. Our landlady had gone away to visit her niece, and so we were quite completely alone. Except for Dollie. 

‘But how on earth are we supposed to do that?’

_L - O - O - K - D - O - W - N_

‘ _Fuck_!’ 

‘Bunny, mind your language! Ladies are present.’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head and moving backwards so that my back was pressed up against the base of the armchair behind us. ‘No they aren’t. No one’s here, it’s just us, this isn’t real. Ghosts aren’t real. There is _not_ a dead body buried beneath the house.’

‘Of course there’s not, rabbit,’ Raffles said, shifting over beside me and putting his arm around my shoulders. ‘I’m sorry; this was only supposed to be a bit of fun to cheer you up. I should have known our combined imaginations would make it disturbing. We _are_ rather disturbed souls, aren’t we?’ he laughed, rubbing my arm.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ I said. ‘...Sorry.’

‘What ever for?’

‘Ruining the fun.’

‘You rabbit,’ A.J. laughed, kissing my head.

‘It really is so silly,’ I continued, nestling my head against his shoulder, wrapping my arms around his waist. ‘I _know_ it’s not real. _I know it_. But I still get so --’

‘You’re a writer, Bunny. Suspension of disbelief is part of that. And I love you for it; it would be much less fun if you stuck at being skeptical.’

‘I _am_ skeptical,’ I still insisted, even whilst my hands were still shaking from childish fear. ‘It’s all explainable. If ghosts were real, why would they need spirit boards, and people to move the planchette, in order to speak? Why wouldn’t they make their presence known by themselves? If there _are_ ghosts, they should prove it _without_ us having to do anything!’

And then the electric light flashed and went out, and a freezing draft extinguished all but three of the candles. One for me, one for A.J., and one for... whoever else.

Raffles and I looked at one another through the darkness.

I was on my feet in seconds, dragging Raffles with me, and stumbling as fast as I could through the darkness, fumbling against the wall for the light switch. Raffles let me pull him along, giggling like a schoolboy as we went.

‘There’s no use; I think the electrics have blown, Bunny. It’s probably the storm. Here, take a candle.’

I didn’t speak, but merely snatched up a candlestick with the hand that wasn’t clinging on to him, and whirled us both down the hallway and into my bedroom, where once inside I slammed the door shut and locked it. By this point Raffles was near doubled over from laughing.

‘ _Bunny!_ ’ he said through his chuckles, setting his candlestick down on my desk, pulling me into his arms. ‘What a reaction to blown electrics! And what good do you think a locked door will do against a ghost? Oh, you are _adorable!_ ’

‘Shut up,’ I snapped, still panting, thoroughly annoyed at my own ridiculous reaction. ‘It’s _your fault_ , Raffles. I don’t even believe in ghosts. I should never have let you talk me into it. It was foolish, and childish, and I am very cross with you,’ I said, even as I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his shoulder. ‘I’m never going to be able to sleep again. I won’t ever be able to get the image of a body beneath the floorboards out of my head.’

‘Poor Bunny,’ he said, kissing the top of my head. ‘I am a wicked, terrible villain, aren’t I?’

‘You _are_ ,’ I agreed, nuzzling against his neck, feeling better already now that I was in the safety of my bedroom; now that I was in the safety of his arms; though residual nervous energy was still coursing through my veins, leaving me on edge.

‘I’ll have to find some way to make it up to you, hm? Now -- are you going to unlock that door, rabbit, or we both going to be camping out here for the night?’

I opted for the latter, and received no complaints from Raffles.

* * *

Needless to say, neither Raffles nor myself were murdered by poltergeists in our sleep; and I didn’t even have trouble sleeping as I had anticipated; snuggled up in A.J.’s strong arms I soon felt as safe, happy, and secure as ever I did. And, come morning, I could, as expected, see the silliness of the night before for what it was, and wondered at my own gullible credulity. 

But then, a few days later, our landlady returned home from her time away. 

‘Oh, Mr Ralph!’ she cried one afternoon upon finding the photograph from the hidden cupboard in Raffles’ room stowed away in a drawer, ‘where did you find this?’

Raffles glanced at me. ‘Just in a cupboard. Why, who is it?’

Our landlady smiled with great fondness at the photograph, and I found myself stepping closer to listen in.

‘That’s my younger sister,’ the old lady replied warmly. ‘Ah, she was so young, there. Eighteen, I think. She was so pretty, don’t you think? A firecracker, but very pretty. All the boys wanted to court her, but few could handle her spirit!’

‘Your sister, by Jove!’ Raffles murmured. I looked at him, and he caught my eye. ‘What was her name?’

‘Sarah,’ our landlady smiled, and I exhaled breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. ‘It’s her daughter I’ve just been down to see! She’s just had a little one of her own, you see, and I wanted to meet my grand-niece. Bonny little baby she is, Rachel Elizabeth, looks just like Sarah did as a baby. Sarah is over the moon -- though this is her first grandchild and I think she is feeling a little old, bless her.’

‘Your sister is _alive_?’ I said, and Raffles pinched me.

‘Alive! Of course she is alive! What a thing to say, Mr Manders!’

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I -- you were just so happy to see the photograph, I thought that perhaps…’ and I trailed off as Raffles pulled a face at me when our landlady wasn’t looking.,

‘Oh dear me, no,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I didn’t know I still had this photograph; I thought it was lost. Sarah was a real troublemaker, back in those days -- nothing serious, you know, but she was into her mischief. Our parents wanted to take us to have portrait photos taken -- they were the latest thing back then -- but Sarah was so stubborn, she’d refuse to smile; this was the only image the photographer got where she wasn’t poking out her tongue or crossing her eyes. And of course it was the one where that little devil of a best friend of hers ran onto the scene just after the exposure started and pulled a face. See? You can just about make him out; looks as much a cheeky devil as he was in earnest; though it drew a smile to our Sarah’s face. Oh, it does my old heart good to see this, how can I thank you for finding it, Mr Ralph!’

As Raffles waved away her gratitude, I sighed. ‘So it’s _not_ a ghost in the photograph, after all.’

‘Is that what you thought?’ our landlady chuckled at me. ‘No, little Dollie was as alive a lad as ever there was, though he did always have poor health, bless him. But such an imp! He and Sarah were inseparable, you know. Everyone always thought they’d marry, but I always believed he wasn't _the type_ for that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Raffles interjected, ‘Did you say _Dollie?’_

‘Oh, yes, that was his nickname. Sarah started it, and it just stuck. She was two years old, you see, when little Theodore was born to our mother’s cousin -- they were best friends, you know, and lived in the nearest house over from this one. And as soon as little Sarah set eyes on the wee baby, she declared him to be her dollie, and that was that; Dollie he always was for the rest of his days. And he really was her little doll, though a doll possessed by a demon at times. Such a wicked sense of humor, that boy; though I blame that on Sarah’s influence as much as his own nature. It really was such a tragedy what happened to him, poor thing. He was so young.

‘Tragedy?’ Raffles said, and I could have sworn his voice sounded strained.

‘Oh, yes, such a tragedy,’ the old lady said, sadly, shaking her head and making the sign of the cross over her heart.

‘Was he shot?’ I said, stupidly, and Raffles kicked me.

‘ _S_ _hot_? Good heavens, no! You do come up with some strange ideas, Mr Manders--! But I suppose that is because you are a writer, so I must forgive you. No, no, nothing like that; it was the Scarlet Fever that took him. Dollie always was a weak child, in body if not in spirit, and he was still weak when he came of age -- caught the fever and within two days, that was it. Sarah was distraught; they were two halves of one soul, I always said. She still visits his grave every year.’

‘His grave,’ I repeated back. 

‘Yes, Bunny, his grave,’ Raffles said, shaking his head. ‘It’s not that difficult a concept. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs ----, and your sister’s.’

‘Oh, it was so very long ago; I haden’t even thought of dear Dollie in so long -- I’m quite glad you revived him in my memory. A person is never quite gone whilst his ripples are still in the world, don’t you think?’

‘That’s very poetic, Mrs ----’ I said. Our landlady was a very unexpected woman, at times. 

‘Ah, look at me, being so sentimental. I’m sorry, my dears,’ our landlady smiled apologetically, ‘I’m afraid I’m being a touch morbid, aren’t I?’

‘Not at all,’ Raffles said, laying a kindly hand upon the old lady’s arm and smiling warmly. ‘It’s always a joy to hear your stories, Mrs ----.’

‘Oh, Mr Ralph, you are such a charming man. I am _so_ glad that you and your brother are here; I felt so secure leaving the cottage to the both of you whilst I was away, you know, knowing it was in such good hands. So much better than the last tenants I had who left that horrible spirit board. I knew they were no good, dabbling with forces they oughtn’t. Not like you lovely boys. _You_ boys know right from wrong! Now I think of it, you both remind me so much of dear Dollie, in many ways. You’re good boys,’ she reiterated, patting us both on the hand in a motherly fashion, before bustling off with the promise of baking us cakes for being such exemplary tenants.

***

Later that night, when all was quiet, I lay in my bed thinking upon the disconcerting revelations our landlady had laid before us earlier that day. My thoughts were drifting to ghosts, and just as I pulled the blankets up under my chin to stave off a shiver, I heard a quiet knocking coming from the wall behind my chest of drawers. At first I ignored it -- the pipes in that cottage had a tendency to creak -- but then it began to hammer out a recognisable tattoo. 

_‘Hallo?’_

Upon hearing the muffled voice, I froze, and a moment later the banging returned, only louder and more aggressive this time. For a moment I considered darting next door and getting Raffles -- but then I thought better of it. And instead I took a deep breath and slipped out of my bed, and walked towards the knocking.

‘Who’s there?’ I said in an angry stage whisper. ‘What do you want?’

‘What do you mean _who’s there_?’ said the muffled voice in the wall. ‘Who do you think it is, you ass! Whatever’s in front of me, can you move it? I can’t get this blasted thing to open!’

‘Raffles!’ I cried, before making haste to shift my dresser. Once done, I found that there was a door in my wall identical to that in Raffles’ though half covered over by cheap plaster and paint; and after a few good kicks from inside, in a cloud of old plaster dust the thing creaked open on its hinges to reveal Raffles’, covered in cobwebs -- and little else. 

He sneezed.

‘Told you I’d fit,’ he grinned after crawling out of the tiny tunnel feet first and tumbling in a heap to the floor.

‘Oh, for God’s _sake_ , A.J.,’ I said, half laughing, half telling him off. ‘Whatever are you playing at! You almost scared me half to death!’

‘Thought it was a ghost coming to get you?’ he said, getting to his feet and putting on the dressing gown I’d handed him. ‘I suppose it is, in a way,’ he grinned.

‘You’re freezing, you idiot. Get under the blankets.’

‘That was my plan, Bunny,’ he smirked, making me roll my eyes. Still, I gladly climbed into my bed beside him, and pressed my warm feet against his icy cold ones to warm him up. After a few moments of cuddling -- and picking cobwebs out of his curls -- I turned to look at him, and asked him the question I’d been mulling over for the past hour.’

‘What did you make of all _that_ , then?’

‘All of what, Bunny?’

‘All of that business with Sarah and the baby _Rachel_ and _Dollie_? I can’t figure any of it out. What do you make of it all?’

‘I don’t make anything of it. Why should I?’

‘What? How can you not? I suppose there was just as much that proved false, but so much was _right_ , the _name_ , and the baby, and the photograph -- and the fact of you finding that little cupboard behind your wardrobe on Halloween, as though you were _fated_ to find it in the _first place_!’

‘It’s a mystery, Bunny,’ A.J. said, as though that were any kind of an answer. ‘Life is full of them.’

‘How can you be content with that?’

‘What would you be content with?’

‘I--’ I stopped answering before I’d started, and thought on his question. ‘...I don’t know,’ I admitted after a few moment’s thought. ‘I still don’t believe in ghosts, and one strange personal experience won’t change that, but…’

‘...but the possibility is tantalising?’

‘Essentially, yes.’

‘Then _let_ it be, Bunny. We can’t know everything; and there is such a _thrill_ in the unknown, don’t you think? _Who are these coming to the sacrifice?_ We don’t know, can never know -- that’s part of the beauty of it all.’

‘That’s all well and good, but I like _knowing_ things,’ I muttered.

‘I know you do, you rabbit,’ he chuckled softly, gazing into my eyes and brushing a strand of hair away from my face.

‘There is one thing I know for certain, though, A.J...'

‘Mm? What’s that?’

‘Our landlady is going to _kill you_ if she finds out you’ve kicked a hole in her wall!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END OF INKTOBER!
> 
> What the hell. How is that possible. Where has October gone? Where has the _year_ gone? Oh dear me...
> 
> Ah, yes, and the "real events" is just that my brother, sister, and I ofter use ouija boards, and the scariest time we did was in these freakin terrifying woods, at sunset, and this like... little kid ghost started "talking" to us, and saying he had been murdered by his father and buiried in the woods, and wanted us to find his body so that he could Rest In Peace. God, that terrified me. And I don't at all believe in ghosts. But when you are in a scary atmosphere, and then a dead kid starts asking you to find his body so he isn't trapped in limbo forever.... YIIIIIKESSS! Also "Dollie" is partly based on the "ghost" who haunts my sister's house, who is a total troll maniac, who says the weirdest, trolliest crap on the spirit board, and turns the shower cold when my brother is in there, and does other weird things. His name is Usmu. I know he isn't real, but also he is _kinda_.... 
> 
> ANYWAY... I hope you all enjoyed this, and all the rest of this crazy stupid nonsense I have written during Crime, Cricket, and Inktober. If you made it this far, I can only assume that you liked it a _bit_. That, or you pity me. Either way, THANKS :D
> 
> Well. It's been fun. Thanks for being along for the ride, folks!!! <3


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